


Apologies

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel/ Cockles Chapter Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Anger, Angry Sam, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, POV Castiel, POV Dean, POV Sam, Pie, Prostitution, Protective Castiel, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 57,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He won't talk to anyone, not to Sam ... not anyone. Dean knows he's better off spitting his sorrows into a bottle; but Castiel is stubborn. He won't let his friend fall like this. Despite Sam's warnings, despite the hell Dean puts him through, Cas is going to help. No matter what it takes, he will help Dean come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vile

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I ever wrote, so sorry if it's a little rough (I have many more now, so things have improved haha)

        He distorts the world through the heavy bottom of his glass; swirling around the last brown drop of whiskey before pressing his lips to the edge and sucking it in. Dean slams the empty tumbler hard on the wood of the bar, letting the bartender know that he is dry. The tired man down the way gives a knowing nod in Dean's direction before returning to wiping off the counter.

        "Yeah, take your time, dickweed."

        Dean lifts the glass again and inspects it thoroughly; either to make sure it's really empty or to look extra eager for the man who holds the liquor—he isn't really sure which. Not that it matters. Nothing matters. Not anymore.

        "Dean! Why the hell are you here again, man?"

        Dean doesn't even flinch at the sound of his brother's voice, booming behind him.

        "Seriously dude, this is getting ridiculous. You need to come back to the real world now."

        Dean peeks over his shoulder and watches as his brother leans in close, trying to read him. Sam's shape waves in and out of focus. Even the slight tilt of Dean's head sends the world spinning. The older brother begins to lean towards the younger, closer and closer until he feels the brutal push of gravity shoving him towards the floor. Sam reaches out and grabs his arm, steadying him just before Dean drops.

        "Jesus man, seriously?" The sober set of eyes roll and exhaustion has overtaken Sam's voice.

        "I'm fine damnit!" Dean barks while pulling from his brother's grip.

        " _Fine_?" Sam snaps back with a sarcastic laugh. "I don't know man ... _Fine_ would be you answering my twenty calls! _Fine_ would be you, being at home, in bed at ten p.m. instead of in a dank bar with these friendless-weirdos." Sam flings his arm out, gesturing towards the rest of the room. " _Fine_ , Dean, would be the _you_ I used to know three months ago. The _you_ that always brought _me_ back from the brink. I don't mind helping you for a change, Dean but you have to be willing to acknowledge me to do so!"

        Dean listens and sways back and forth, barely hearing anything but the familiar tone of his brother's lecture. He has heard these many times in his life, and excessively so in the last few months. He let his voicemail fill to the brim with them, and never bothered erasing any so new ones could take their place. He didn't care what Sam said, he couldn't fix anything.

        "Dude, can you even hear me?" Sam waves his hand in front of Dean's vacant eyes. "Hello? You that far gone?"

        The hand is quickly swatted away before its waving could make Dean vomit. He plops back against the cracking vinyl of the barstool and stretches out his cramping legs.

        "Leave me alone, Sam." Dean grumbles, turning back to flag down the bartender.

        "No!" Sam whips him around by the shoulder, making Dean fall back, hard against the edge of bar. His elbows now baring all his weight and slipping along the wet rings he left on the wood.

        "Dude, what the hell?" Dean spits, struggling to get himself upright again.

        "What the hell is with _you_ Dean? I know things suck right now man, I get it. I really do, but to do this," The tall Winchester gestures again towards the rest of the bar and then to Dean, tracing the air up and down the length of Dean's torso, "this is just stupid!"

        "What the hell do you know?" Dean replies, quieter than he anticipates but still just as fierce.

        "I know you're hurting, Dean." Sam sits down on the stool next to his brother, making himself eye level. He softens his face, making the older brother flashback to their childhood- little chubby hands, wrapping around his middle to trap him in a hug. Big, brown eyes, letting him know it would all be okay. _That was a long time ago._

        "I know that losing Lisa, losing Ben—them dying the way they did, that was messed up and it would wreck anybody; but you're not just anybody, Dean. You're my brother."

        Dean focuses at the sound of Lisa's name and glares at Sam at the sound of Ben's. "Don't fucking talk about them!" Dean growls, his voice cracking slightly as whiskey threatens to return up his throat. "Don't you ever fucking talk about them!"

        Sam rises to his feet again, quickly taking a step back at the sound of his brother's voice. "I'm not talking about them man, I am just saying ..."

        "Shut the fuck up! Don't talk about them!" Dean sees red. He watches the fire and flecks of red paint burning up and flitting through the air. The walls blackening in the kitchen—the dining room, Lisa's favorite places. The glass melting and shattering in the crimson fury that Dean knew he started. He sees the look on Lisa's face when he said he would help her with the light fixtures; the light fixtures that she has hated ever since she moved in. He thinks about how happy she was once they were gone. He thinks about her voice when she called to say the new ones stopped working. He thinks of how she must have flinched when the switches started sparking. He thinks about how she must have screamed as she ran down the hall, yelling for Ben. He sees the licks and whips of red that tasted the air as he pulled up along the curb. He thinks about the impossible silence as he ran towards the front door. He hears his own voice die amongst the flames and the cracking of the house. Then he hears nothing

        "Dean, please, just listen!"

        Dean flings his clenched fist wildly at Sam's head, trying to stop the memories that seem to be flowing straight from his brother's mouth. Sam is quicker than him,swiftly dodging out of the way and grabbing his shoulders on the follow through, pushing Dean into the sticky floor of the bar.

        "Get off me you fucking moose!"

        "Not until you calm down, Dean!"

        "Get off! Get the fuck off! Fuck!"

        Dean bucks and writhes against the impossible weight of his brother's knee bearing down on his spine. It hurts but Dean welcomes the crack and burn of the pain. He finally stops when the motion brings all one hundred and twenty dollars of hard liquor back up his throat. Sam falls back as Dean mimics every horror film they had ever seen as kids. Vomit spews and slides, sending the gathered crowd that was surrounding the fighting brothers, back nearly a yard.

        Sam sighs a heavy breath. "Dean, you need to go home now." Sam says after a moment, pulling his still-heaving brother up from the floor.

        "Who the hell is going to clean this up?" the bartender yells, now directly across from Dean's empty stool.

        "I'm sure my brother's hefty tip will more than pay for your trouble." Sam snaps bitchily before fishing Dean's wallet out of his brother's back pocket.

        Dean's stomach begins to calm slightly. He catches his breath enough to drag himself out of Sam's clenched fingers.

        "Let go of me!' Dean swells, throat bursting a new kind of vile as he watches Sam empty his bill fold and hand the contents to the eager bartender.

        "Let go ... let go of everything Sam! I am not your fucking project!" Dean's own intensity doubles him over, making him have to rest his palms on his knees just to stay upright. "You can take your brotherly shit somewhere else. I don't want to hear it! I don't want to hear anything you got to say, got it?" Dean looks up at Sam, noticing the hurt that's crawling across his brother's face—the liquor residue left in his stomach, warms greedily at the sight. "You can fuck off and don't bother calling me anymore! I don't need to worry about how I am making _poor little Sammy feel,_ okay? Fucking get a life and get the hell outta mine!"

        Dean erects himself again, trying to match his brother's height the best he can—puffing out his chest, asserting whatever dominance he can muster in his vomit soaked state.

        Sam stares at Dean, eyes sagging as all of his brother's words sink in. Then, with a blink, his face contorts, ears pulling back, making his forehead tighten into a hard wall. The over sized younger brother purses his lips, taking n a gallon of air through his nose, making his chest double the width of Dean's.

        "You know what, fine! If that's how you want it Dean, I am done!" Sam's hands fly up into the air with a burst before free-falling back to his sides. "I am done coming to these hell holes and dragging you out. I am done cleaning you up and reassuring you that everything will be okay, when you obviously don't even want it to be!" Sam takes a step towards his brother, looking down on him in every way. His brown eyes, shooting fury into Dean's. "If you want to kill yourself over this, then do it. I love you man but I can't take this anymore. You're on your own. I'm done!"

        Sam pushes by Dean, bouncing him off his shoulder, sending him falling into his own mess of bile and half-digested bar nuts.

        "I never fucking asked you to start, Sam!"

        Sam doesn't respond as he pushes through the crowd and bursts out the door.

        "I never fucking asked you." Dean grunts to himself, world spinning-ears splitting to the erupting crowd, commenting on everything that just occurred. Dean looks around to see the bartender coming towards him, mop and towel in hand. The dingy hair of the mop flails angrily with the air of the room. The motion sends Dean reeling. He turns his head and lets out another spurt of acid and mush just before falling to the floor. Finally relaxing after the last heave, letting the world goes black around him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is posted on another site, however, that site will be taking it down soon due to the explicit content. I do own this story. I am the original author.


	2. Understanding

     "Well, is he alright?"

     "Yeah he's alright Cas, as in, he isn't _physically_ wounded or anything; but he is fucking gone in every other respect."

     "Do you know if he made it home?" Cas stares helplessly at the wall, hoping answers will somehow appear in front of him, but all that he sees is pale blue paint and the edges of himself in the mirror.

     "I have no idea. I got the hell out of there when he basically said we weren't brothers anymore."

     "He said that?" Cas could never imagine a world where Dean turned away his adored, little brother.

     "More or less. In any case Cas, I am just letting you know where he's at, you know, mentally—just in case he tries to contact you or something. Not that he will, you know Dean. Mr. On-My-Own."

     The soullessness of Sam's voice is jarring. Cas has never heard Sam talk about Dean this way—then again, Dean has never been like this before. It's all new and it's all terrifying to him.

     "Well, I thank you Sam. Do you want me to let you know if he calls?"

     "It's better if you don't, man ... " Sam lets out an exacerbated grunt "the less I know right now, the better."

     Cas chokes on his breath, looking desperately at the floor before nearly whining at the younger Winchester. "But, what if Dean really needs your help?"

     "Dean doesn't _need_ anybody but Jack and Jim Beam apparently!"

     Cas falls silent, unsure if Sam is making a reference to something or talking about actual acquaintances of Dean's; but he is pretty certain he has never heard Dean speak of friends by those names. The silence flowing from Cas's end of the line seems to soften Sam's voice.

     "Look Cas, Dean doesn't want my help. He made that perfectly clear last night. I know you care about him just as much as I do, but neither of us can force him to be normal again. He wants to decide that on his own. All we can do is hope he doesn't kill himself instead."

     Cas shudders at Sam's words but remains silent because he knows what Sam is saying is true. After a long breath, Cas nods to himself in the mirror.

     "Okay Sam, I understand."

     "I wish I had better news on the Dean-front, buddy, I really do."

     "As do I."

     "Alright man, hey, I gotta go. Hang in there okay? And, you know, I may not be able to help Dean but I know this affects you too. I'm here for you, since Dean isn't right now."

     "I appreciate that Sam. Talk to you soon."

     Sam hangs up as soon as Cas's words dissipate into the static. "Goodbyes" were never in the Winchester vocabulary and Cas always appreciated that. Wrapping up conversations or conversations in general weren't one of Cas's strong suits. Dean and Sam always came about words so effortlessly and they could always tell when Cas needed saving or even just some backup when he started to flounder.

     Cas sets his phone down on his night stand before looks back at himself in the mirror. His dark hair is sticking up, a mess of waves and cowlicks. Purpled circles cradle his drooping eyes. The usual bright blue rings are now dulled by redness. He hasn't slept well recently—Sam's weekly Dean-updates have been keeping his mind reeling. He wants to help his closest friend; he wants things to be better. He wishes he was as good with words as Sam; maybe it would make a difference.

     Cas's mind travels back to what Sam had just told him about the previous night. If Sam's artfully shaped phrases of concern and love didn't make a difference, Cas certainly would not be able make one—even if he did know what to say. Cas knows that Dean doesn't love anyone as much as he loves his brother. How could he just turn him away like that? How could Sam let him give up? How can he fix this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you're liking it!


	3. Poor Grammar

     Castiel tries hard to heed Sam's warning. Over the weeks following their last conversation, Cas keeps busy with errands and work—anything that would stave the distraught Winchester brother from his thoughts.

     The hum of his desktop computer doesn't bring him into the quiet daze it normally does. Fact checking articles and editing words doesn't calm his nerves or cradle him in the expected. Even his walks through the local library, skimming the shelves for something new, something adventurous to distract him from his own lack of adventure, doesn't offer any solace. Nothing works. Nothing brings the worst-case-scenarios to a screeching halt in Cas's head. He only sees Dean, lying cold and gray in a pool of his own vomit. Or the Impala, wrapped around a pole, with Dean mangled inside. Or, almost worst of all: Dean alive, and alone, deteriorating with no one around to care.

     Cas began his Saturday, planning on going to the store and meeting with the accountant about his mortgage; factual, predictable things that he knew he could depend on. But today is no different. He woke up with nothing but Dean plaguing his head. The drive to the store seems long, longer than it has been on past weekends. He tries to think of other items he forgot to put on his list, but worry distracts him. _Has Dean gone to the store? Has he eaten anything good lately? Is he okay?_ The market whizzes by his driver's side window, his grocery list lying, forgotten in the ashtray. The world is suddenly speeding by- nothing but a haze of broken promises. Cas soon finds himself at Dean's door, knocking wildly, as if the house were about to explode.

     Cas looks around the slatted walls- leaning a little to see if anything on the inside is viable through the window. After a few excruciating moments, the door opens. Cas jumps at the sight of _not-Dean_ , but a tired looking woman with blurry red lips standing in front of him.

     "Yeah?" she says with all the eloquence of a dying fish.

     "Oh, um, hello. May I speak to Dean please?"

     "Who?" The woman's face twists in apparent disgust at the sound of a question being directed at her. Cas peers around her bony side and sees the familiar outline of Dean, draped across the armchair in the living room. His gurgled snores making their way to Cas's ears.

     "Um, him ... " Cas says, pointing at the unconscious man behind her.

     "Oh, I thought he said his name was Don." The woman says with a snort.

     "It's Dean." Cas retorts dryly.

     "Yeah, whatever. Anyway, as you can see, _Dean_ is sleeping." She scoffs and rolls her eyes,"The guy was so wasted, he passed out before we even ... _ya know_."

     Cas stares angrily at the careless woman. Dean could suffocate on his own vomit and she would probably scoff at the hassle of calling an ambulance.

     "I, umm, thank you for watching him but, you can take your leave, mam. I will watch over him now."

     The woman shoots the man a bewildered glare, drawing her hands to her hips, fingers playing wickedly with the belt loop on her jean skirt.

     "I ain't going anywhere honey ... not until that dude wakes up and gives me my money."

     Cas fidgets in his place on the doorstep. He knew that this woman was probably a prostitute but the fact that she just came out and _said_ it like that is making him very uncomfortable.

          "Well, it does not look like he is waking up any time soon, mam, so I can have him call you when he does. He can pay you then." Cas smiles at his own, seemingly reasonable solution.

      The woman gapes blankly at the trench coated being in front of her, just before letting out a manly chortle.

     "Oh sweetie, that's not how _this_ works! I don't leave without my money, that way, I can go to bed tonight with all my teeth—you understand?"

     Cas didn't but he could understand that this issue would not go away until Dean rousted himself or until Cas took care of it.

     "How much does he owe you" Cas finally asks, fingers slipping into the folds and dancing along the seam of his wallet in the pocket of his coat.

     The woman smiles victoriously.

     "Two hundred and fifty."

     Cas's eyes shoot wide, his mouth bounces open as words begin to crawl out. He pauses for a moment before snapping his jaw closed again. He knows that whatever he says, probably won't sway this woman. He decides to silently curse his luck instead.

     Cas begrudgingly opens up his billfold and pulls out the three-hundred dollar bills he had took from the safe, with every intention of depositing them in the bank.

     "I only have three hundred, do you have change?" Cas asks, hopefully.

     The woman just glares at him, a smile twitching onto her stained lips.

     "Where do you think I would be hiding change, honey?" she does a little spin in place, showing off her painted on clothing, making Castiel acknowledge her lack of pockets.

     "Well, where do you plan on keeping this then?" Cas asks curiously, flicking the money between his fingers, unknowing of how snarky he is coming off.

     The woman's grin grows wide as she snatches the folded bills from his outstretched hand. She begins hiking up her skirt, slowly- dancing her hips back and forth to non existent music. She stares deeply at Cas, leaning slightly forward, to reveal the shadowy gap between her breasts. Cas peers at her, curious still at what this woman is attempting to do or why she is staring at him so intensely. The short hem of the woman's jean skirt is soon hitched up over the bones at her waist, exposing a bright red thong with "I'm No Angel" written on the front in white, jagged letters.

     Cas cocks his head to the side, and the woman smiles the same victorious smile she had on before. Eyes still locked on Cas, she slips her finger underneath the fabric of her panties and pulls them slightly to the right. Cas catches a glimpse of recently shaved skin, puckered and red with razor burn. The woman slides the money behind the taut fabric with her other hand and the releases it, the elastic snapping back making her yelp a soft "Ooh!"

     Cas looks up at the woman's grinning face as she pulls the edges of her skirt back down her sides.

     "That is poor grammar." Cas says finally as the woman's hands returns to her hips.

     Her eyes dart down quickly, looking over herself; confusion flushing her face as she tries to figure out the man's intention."What?"

     "Your undergarments—they should read _I am not an angel_. More words, less capitalization." Cas nods thoughtfully to the woman's waist and gives a small smile, hoping he has helped her with an unknown indiscretion.

     The bony creature returns the blank, cocked head expression Cas gave her earlier, just before flicking her hands up in the air and pushing past him and out the door.

     "Whatever buddy!"

     Cas watches as she walks away, over accentuating the swivel of her hips and giving a fluttery wave to the neighbor who is getting his mail.

 

 


	4. Wave of Silence

      Dean feels the earth roll beneath him. A fire begins to burn in his stomach; acid tripping over acid, all vying for fresh air. He flutters his eyes for a moment; but the light of the room attempts sear his pupils shut.

      "Dean?"

      The familiar hum of Cas's voice slips softly into Dean's ear.

      "Dean, wake up."

      Dean slits his left eye open once more and sees two, giant, blue ones peering back at him.

      "Cas?" the name slurs at the tip, heavy with rum.

      "Dean, are you alright?"

      Dean rubs his eyes with a blundering hand before dragging it across his nose, snorting up whatever might possibly slide out as he pulls himself upright.

      "Where is, the girl ... woman?" He's still trying to figure out where he is or what's going on—only being certain that he has something equivalent to morning wood, and there _was_ someone here with the means of taking care of it.

      "Oh, um, she had to leave." Cas says, hesitation wracking his voice.

      " _Leave_?" Dean gurgles, pushing himself out of the chair and stumbling round to face Castiel.

      "Yes, well—she didn't _have to_ so much, as I asked her to." Cas's eyes shoot towards the ground, and Dean follows his gaze thinking that it may lead him to some sort of clarity on what's happening.

      He feels his face bend and squish with more confusion, "You asked her to, to leave? Why? How? . . . Why?" Dean stumbles towards to door, supporting himself on the knob before flinging it open enough to stick his head out.

      "Woman! Lady, person ... come back! I haven't even given you your money yet!"

      Dean peers, wide eyed around the empty street, finally comprehending that woman is really gone.

      "Dean, I already paid her. It's okay, you don't have to worry about that." Cas offers meagerly as Dean's head is still sandwiched between the open door and the frame.

      The drunk man's shoulders stiffen with his friend's words. "You paid her? For what?" Dean turns, eyes narrowing as they fall on Cas. He drops back against the door, letting it slam close with a bang. Cas flinches at the noise but stares unblinkingly back at Dean.

      "I paid her for her ... er, uh, services." Cas shifts uncomfortably in his shoes, his trench coat looking too big on the suddenly, shrinking man.

      Dean feels the heat rising through his neck. The frustration from his untouched waistband powers him towards his anxious friend, bringing him impossibly close to his face.

      "You paid her? Before she even _did anything_ for me?" Dean growls, causing the man to twitch with the barrage of rum breath and spit.

      "She didn't already ...?"

      "No! You fucking idiot!" Dean feels his hand fly up and grab the folds of Cas's coat. They stay still for a moment, while Dean soaks up the palpable fear exuding from the other man's dead weight. Dean lifts him off the ground and hurtles him back until the bruit force of the wall stops their motion.

      "Dean! I'm so sorry!"

      Dean doesn't hear him, he can't hear him. All he hears are the sounds of the woman's promises of what she was going to do to him, burning away into nothing.

      "I will show you fucking sorry!" Dean's head whirls; he can taste the liquor on his tongue and the desire to have something warm around him on his skin. He drops the man from his grip, letting him rumple to the floor. Dean stares blankly at the wall where Cas was being pinned, undoing his pants with unfeeling fingers. Unaware of Castiel's terrified eyes below him.

      Dean reaches down with the drop of his jeans and pulls Cas back up by the collar of his coat. He flips the man around and presses his face into the wall. Dean pushes up against Castiel's back, feeling the man's warmth through the rage and heat of the booze. He slips his hands down to collect his now, throbbing bulge from his boxers, when he catches the scent of Cas's hair.

      Dean stops, the smell bringing him back to Lisa's funeral. Back when Castiel leaned in close and gripped Dean tight, raising him just as he broke down on the side of the Impala. Everyone else had left. Even Sam went back home, apparently buying it when Dean said he was okay—or not willing to fight him anymore. But Cas was still there. He found Dean, all too sober and all too wrecked with what was happening around him. Dean tried to hide, he tried to send his friend away; but the man wouldn't leave. Eventually, Dean couldn't hold back the tears. Cas pulled him deep into his side and let Dean rise and fall with the waves of guilt. The only comfort was the smell of Cas's hair, something equivalent to water and woods. Fresh and natural. Dean felt like a chick at the time for finding refuge in such a thing, but he told himself he would never have to admit it to anyone. So he sucked it in, with each heavy pant and gasp, through every snot soaked tear, Dean inhaled Cas and let the scent calm him down.

      He inhales him again, this time, Cas, heaving in panic beneath his weight. Dean stumbles back, nearly tripping over his collapsed jeans. Cas remains against the wall, chest lifting him and sucking him back in; eyes darting to the corners of his skull to glimpse at Dean, but his head-too scared to move.

      Dean can't speak, he wouldn't know what to say if he could. He looks down at himself and then back up at his friend—his best friend, motionless and afraid. Dean can't even remember really how he got here or how he began his assault on one of the two people he loves most in the world. He just knows, that once again, it's his fault.

      Dean descends his fingers down his legs, slowly lifting his jeans until they're back around his hips. He stares at the button, urging his hands to move quietly, as if he can somehow, slip out of the room and just disappear from the world in a wave of silence.

      When he finally looks up, he sees Cas turning around; his blue eyes curving with the weight of concern and fear that is climbing about his face.

      "Dean, I am so sorry."

      Dean sucks in the toxic air around him. He feels it's escaping the room all too quickly, and poison is better than nothing. His minds fogs over again and guilt bubbles in his gut, making him want to vomit and scream and curse all at once. He closes his eyes and bends down, beating his fists on his legs. Finally letting out his captured breath, he looks back up to find he's still locked in Cas's gaze. He looks back down a moment, trying to escape. Another peek at his friend proves him trapped. The anger returns.

      "Don't look at me!" Dean pleads, his voice somewhere between a cry and a bark.

      Cas doesn't listen.

      Dean growls, clenching his fists harder against his thighs; the onslaught of blue irises still burrowing into him. He can't take it, he needs it to stop. He will make it stop! His body lurches forward. He feels his fist connect with something hard, angled and rough. He bites at his breath, trying to calm it from its panic. As his chest slows and his heartbeat regulates, he looks down to see an unconscious Castiel, crumpled at his feet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think so far . . .


	5. Add it to the Mix

     The violent whizzing of a weed-whacker next door kicks Cas out of his slumber—if that's what you could call what he had just experienced _._ Cas rubs his jaw and feels it click with a painful twinge that shoots through his temples. He looks around, at first, not sure where he is, but soon recognizing the familiar colors and patterns of Dean's wrinkled shirts. The musky smell of Dean's aftershave soaks the air. Cas relaxes for a moment in the safety of someplace a little familiar, even though he's rarely been in Dean's room.

  
     "Dean?" Cas tries to shout but his voice is hoarse and it hurts his throat to yell. "Dean, are you here?" he finally croaks.

The responding silence is confusing; until he slowly remembers _why_ he's here. He remembers the bleary eyed woman who swindled him out of that extra fifty dollars. He remembers the anger on Dean's face when he realized that woman was gone. He remembers Dean's grip, how heavy his fists were. _What had he done?_ Cas's heart begins to pound.

  
     " _Let's hope he doesn't kill himself_ "

     Sam's words explode in Cas's head, over and over, like fireworks in the dark. He sent away the only person he's seen Dean reach out to in all this time—even though she was a mess of a thing, Cas knew Dean had chosen her for a reason; for comfort, for company. He didn't choose Sam for that. Dean didn't choose him either—but Cas did just what he was told not to, he butted in. He pushed inside this house and he pushed his best friend to the brink. Perhaps, even over the edge.

    "Dean!" Cas yelps, desperately hoping for an answer.

 _Nothing_.

    He isn't here. He may not be anywhere. The realization that Dean's absence may be permanent digs deeps into the center of Cas's chest. He hasn't known a life without the Winchesters in almost eight years and he never cared to know it again. Dean saved him from solitary—from an overbearing father's will and from a predestined life that did nothing but sink Cas's spirit into the mud.

   The sound of Dean's breathy laugh still rings in his ears, his heavy hand still seems to be pressing thoughtfully on Cas's shoulder; the dizzying sound of the crowded bar instantly softens when Dean starts to sway and scoop words into an artful dance that somehow warded off danger. It calmed the intimidating man that was ready to pummel Cas into nothing after he accidentally spilled his drink with a misguided step.

   "Excuse my friend." the memory starts to play. "It's his first real drink and his first time in the states. He doesn't know any better, you can't blame a guy for being an inexperienced drunk, can you?"

   Dean's old words are bouncing off the walls of Cas's skull. He recalls trying to explain how Dean must have him confused for someone else, but before he could, the kind, green eyed man tossed him a mischievous wink. Cas is still surprised he knew what that wink meant. The heroic stranger had somehow found a way of pushing some clarity into Cas's socially awkward brain.

   The rest of that night at the bar went better than expected, so much better. Cas couldn't believe he found luck in such an unnerving place. He would have never even visited there if it hadn't been for the poor planning of his study group. A group who never even bothered to show, leaving Cas wandering a crowded, sticky bar, arms full of textbooks and no one to talk to.

   That kindness and all the kindness that followed in years to come could never be repaid. And now, here he is, not only throwing that kindness back in Dean's face, but causing his usually composed, happy friend to lose control.

   Cas has seen Dean drunk; he has seen Dean become mindless and numb to things. But he has never seen him when so much anger was added to the mix.

   Cas let his head fall into his hands, tousling his hair as if he could shake out the guilt from his follicles.

   "You are a stupid man, Castiel"

   He imagines, if Dean is still alive- he is somewhere seeking out a new best friend, or perhaps, a new woman—or the same woman. He knows Dean still wants company; that has been the one constant throughout all of this. He knows Dean very well, and he knows he _loves_ sex. Dean was so desperate, he nearly sought that comfort from _him_! The thought rings through Cas's head. He recalls the feeling of Dean, hard against the small of his back. He wasn't sure of what was happening at the time, but now, as he looks in the rearview, he understands Dean's intentions.

   The sound of Dean's zipper sliding down seems to the last forever in Cas's memory, only realizing seconds later that the lawn equipment outside is still humming. The shaky, half image of Dean's curled face comes back to the corners of Cas's vision. It plays like an old movie in his mind, a projector screen made from the chipping paint on the walls of Dean's room. The green eyes he knows too well, red with drink and rage. Lips dry, jaw riddled with hair, forgotten for days. The face Cas always sought understanding in was suddenly masked with something unfamiliar and he wishes he could have pin pointed what it was. If he knew, maybe then he could have stopped Dean from looking so sad afterwards- after he backed away from Castiel. Back away in disgust, perhaps—he couldn't find comfort in someone who just wrecked the little trust he had left, no matter how desperate he was. Cas thought he might have backed away too, if the tables were turned.

   What if Dean hadn't backed away? The idea of it going further didn't scare the blue eyes man as much as he thought it might—not as much as if it were just a hypothetical curiosity. The ones offered in random conversation. The reality of it was more confusing than anything else. He somehow knew that Dean wouldn't hurt him, not intentionally. Even in a drunken rage, he knew Dean would stop before anything too horrible happened.

   Maybe _horrible_ isn't the right word. Cas stares intensely out the window, the whirring of the weed-whacker next door, jumbling his thoughts along with the grass. He knew, Dean would stop at that moment, before _something_ happened. Whatever that would be to Dean, Cas can't say. He just knows that right now, he wishes he could have offered Dean something, _anything_ that would have made him feel better.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I have finished this story, I am still editing and adding things if they're brought to my attention. Please leave me feedback-- good or bad. I always want to improve my work. Thank you so much!


	6. Better Than Family

    The brick wall looks smooth in the blinding orbs cast out by the Impala's headlights. Dean stares at the whitening blocks, mesmerized for a moment, like a bug to a humming bulb. He clicks his tongue on his teeth, feeling it stick, and peel off the arid roof of his mouth. He lets his arm lead out and fish in the passenger seat for the last remaining bottle of beer; continuing to stare out the windshield. Returning victorious, his hands quickly twist off the cap and Dean sucks down the thickening liquid. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the reverse image of the bright bricks flash against his lids. He watches as the white hatched lines flicker; between them, something more colorful starts to show through.

    Two blue circles look back at him, creasing at the edges, turning into tear-filled corners. Black pupils form in the centers, somehow screaming voiceless questions at him. The bright, lighted lines of the bricks slash and cut mercilessly through the tortured spheres. Dean eyes burst wide; his head is spinning and a familiar burn starts to crawl over his skin. He shakes his head, trying to lose the sight of Cas's glare; but the image sticks to him like a magnet, refusing to let him forget what he did and what he attempted to do. This guilt! A whole new animal from the type he felt after seeing Lisa's and Ben's house burn to the ground. Dean knew, even though all the blame fell on him, it was never his intention to harm the only woman to ever really care about him, and the only child to ever worm his way into Dean's heart. Even after they were fed up with his closed off personality—no longer wanting to scale the endless walls Dean always built, they still cared. They still allowed him to find importance in their lives, to find a little worth. They didn't turn their backs on him, like so many have before.

    Their backs—their backs weren't forcibly turned by Dean's own hand, not like Castiel's.

    Dean screams.

    The feeling of Cas's quivering skin still aching on his finger tips. Of all the things liquor has allowed him to forget, it's maniacal planning was perfect in making sure these memories stayed. Every sense pounds with the images, the smells, the feeling—no, this was too sweet for the devil-liquor to let go.

    Dean's voice bounces off the bricks. The Impala's suspension rocks and squeaks as Dean punches the steering wheel and thrashes about the cab. Screaming curses and spitting beer stained fury all over the windshield.

    The light leaps from the wall and sear into his eyes, beckoning him closer, Dean pants heavily as the Impala's shaking slows to a stop. His trembling fingers reach down and strum the dangling keys in the ignition. He thumbs the flat face of the inserted car key, glaring at it through the cutout of the steering wheel. He lets out a grunt and grinds his teeth until he hears a crack. He turns them, feeling the familiar roar of his prized car beneath him. He lifts his head and eyes the bricks once more. He slides both his feet onto the pedals, one revving the engine, loud growling and spitting a white exhaust cloud behind him. The other foot holds tight to the brake pedal, letting the wheels spin helplessly in place. Dean blinks; sweat dripping off his brow and into his eyes, blurring the image of the wall and the thoughts of Castiel, crumpled and unconscious on the floor.

    The car bucks a bit as Dean lightens the weight on his left foot, the glow of red brake lights disappearing out of his peripheral in the review mirror. The motion sends a wave of panic flooding through his body. He slams hard on the breaks again, this time with both feet, before softly rubbing his hands along the steering wheel. He quickly reaches down and turns the ignition back towards him. The Impala shudders to sleep, the engine giving off little clicks and exhausted pops.

    "I'm sorry baby." Dean coos, fingers molesting the shiny leather on the wheel.

    Cas's face returns to his mind, motionless but asking every question Dean has been trying to avoid. Dean looks back to the wall, an inch closer than it was just moments ago. A scorching pain floods his face as he realizes, he took more mercy with his car than he did with his family— _his friends_ ; his _best_ friend, someone who has talked more sense into Dean than his own brother. Castiel has never done anything to warrant that kind of anger, except what? Keep him from catching a venereal disease from some bony hooker? He lost it over that? He lost his best friend over that? He lost Castiel?

 _He lost him_?


	7. A Note

   Morning light tumbles in as Dean crashes through his front door. He looks around, half expecting someone to be there, although he can't quite remember who. He is amazed he even made it home. Everything is waving, sinking, dipping in and out of focus. He looks back to make sure his baby is safe in the driveway. She is, albeit, a little crooked.

Dean slides one numb foot in front of the other until he's inched his way through the living room and into the kitchen. He reaches out over the edge of the kitchen bar and drops his car keys, expecting to hear the usual _ping_ as they hit the glass bowl that sits on his counter top. The keys crash onto the tile counter, the sound muted more quickly than the bowl normally allows. Dean looks up and sees the bowl pushed flush along the wall on the opposite end near the sink. He focuses his eyes and begins to notice an order amongst hist things that hasn't been present since he moved in two years ago—when Lisa helped him bring everything together.

  
   He wrinkles his brow at the new arrangement, wracking his brain-trying to remember when he possibly could have been sober enough to clean. He quickly gives up on the thought and stumbles over to the fridge, looking for the familiar comfort of his stowed away beer. He opens the door, inhaling sharply when he finds vegetables, milk, bread and a few pre-made, marked, meals in tupperware where his beer normally would be.

   Dean erects himself and rubs his eyes, feeling more sober by the second. He starts to recall who he thought might have been in his house, and who he suspects is responsible for his sudden appearance of civility. He turns and braces himself on the fridge, sliding against it until he's at the mouth of the kitchen. Dean rocks on his heels before turning to right once more, plopping his wavering body out into the hall that leads towards his bedroom.

   The usually open door is now shut, leaving him to wonder if someone is still inside. He scooches down the hall, bumping the edges of pictures with his slouched shoulder, leaving a trail of crooked landscapes in his wake. He rests a shaky hand on the knob and twists, a task that seems far more difficult than it should be. As the door finally swings open, Dean is greeted by clean, smooth, turned down sheets, a vacuumed rug and neatly folded laundry on the end of his bed. The sight brings back memories of his mornings at Lisa's; she always had everything perfect. Dean's usual sloppiness was no match for her cleaning regiment. It was something he missed, not necessarily the order, but someone caring enough to try.

  Dean turns around and slides back down the hall, his throat still aching for that beer—hoping maybe, it just got pushed to the back of the fridge and his tired eyes just failed to see it. He rounds the corner once more, facing the open, sparkling-clean kitchen.

  As he inhales the fresh smell of lemon tinted with the burn of ammonia, he spots a piece of paper lain out on the counter next to the stove. Dean pushes closer, anticipation and worry starting to scratch at his ears. He takes another moment, trying to focus his eyes on the neat, tight writing he knows all too well.

  "I'm sorry.

-Castiel"

   Dean steps back, tipping over the fine line into the realm of sobriety. Blocked memories break through, eventually turning him round, making him dash into the bathroom that sits just across the hall. He falls to his knees and skids along the linoleum, smacking his chest against the rim of the toilet. He bobs his head down until his nose almost touches the water inside the bowl. The night's intake rushes out of him with all the fury a guilty conscience can muster. He rests his head on the porcelain and untangles his limbs, trying to find the most comfortable way to sit and wait for the next attack on his gut.

   " _He's sorry_?" he sputters, grimacing at the smell of himself, "What the hell does he have to be sorry for?"

   Dean's stomach roils again and he splatters stale beer all over the freshly cleaned bowl. He coughs and heaves, trying to ignore the burn of bile pouring out of his nostrils. His eyes water as a lump grows in his aching throat.

   "What could that guy ever be sorry for?"

   He chokes out another garbled yelp. His voice echos slightly from the putrid basin, just before arching forward again as his muscles roll out his insides.


	8. Determined

   "This is a foolish idea" Cas mumbles to himself as he pulls up to the third bar he knows about in town. The only reason for knowing of this one's existence is due to the building's proximity to the library. Cas passes it almost every Thursday, barely giving it a thought before he skims the shelves for his next adventure.

   Cas parks along the curb and idles for a moment, wondering for the thousandth time if he is doing the right thing, or if once again, he is sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. Especially since Dean may be willing to break that nose. But this is _Dean_ , he has to try to make things right. He will never sleep again if he doesn't. With that thought, Cas pushes a puffy fingertip against the bags under his eyes, analyzing them and the rest of his bedraggled face in the vanity mirror. A purple bruise covers the left side of his jawbone. Cas peers at it warily, opening his mouth wide and clicking his jaw from side to side. He sinks into another puddle of uncertainty.

   With a deep breath and a trembling hand, Cas pulls open his car door, stepping out and making his way into the bar. The sour smell of stale vomit rushes his nose as soon as he walks in; followed by a hint of body order and the unmistakable smell coconut rum. The mix nearly makes Cas scurry back from where he came. _How can Dean tolerate this?_

He steels himself, taking quick breaths through his mouth, slowly blowing the reverse out his nose. Determined, Cas inches forward and starts to take the place in through his other senses, hoping the experience will be less violent than the smell. The bar has a rough Fifties theme- as in, they have jukebox and some old records adorning the wall, along with a few photos of Elvis. Beyond the meager attempts at décor, there wasn't anything too distinct about the place.

   It was quiet, but then again, it was two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Not to mention it was a bar next to a library, Cas wasn't expecting much. In fact, he is starting to think that he has picked the absolute worst time to go on this expedition. He is choosing to fish in a dry bucket rather than an ocean. No self-respecting—or even semi self-respecting woman would find herself in a place like this ... mid-day. With a heavy sigh, and the lingering weight of time-wasted resting on his neck, Cas resolves to look anyway. He is desperate and he knows Dean is _more_ desperate.

   As he scans the bar, he sees few souls; none worth a second glance. A man with a ponytail placed low on his skull- an attempt to distract from the grassless desert on the top of his head, stares blankly out the window while fingering his empty shot-glass. Another, younger looking man in a wrinkled suit and a binder on the table beside him, mumbles to himself as he watches a baseball game on the television in the corner. They were a sorry pair, and Cas finds himself wondering just what their stories are. He imagines for a moment that the young man just failed an important job interview. Maybe the older one simply, has no where to go and no one to care. The possible stories for the two are endless; but Cas quickly stops his mind. He doesn't need to waste any more time. These _guys_ aren't going to help Dean. Castiel needs a female.

   He backs out of the bar before turning and jumping back into his little, tan sedan. He turns over the engine, eager to get to the next destination. As he puts the car in gear, he realizes he has no idea where the next destination might be. That was the last bar he knew of in town. He assumes there has to be more, because Dean has been kicked out of _many._ Moreover, he can't ever roam too far, because Sam always manages to find him in a night. Sam—Sam! There's an idea! He'll call Sam!

   Cas flips open his phone and quickly dials Sam's number. The phone rings twice before the bouncy voice of the sober Winchester brother bubbles up on the other end.

   "Hey Cas, what's up?"

   "Hello Sam, I need your help."

   "Oh, no, what did Dean do?" Sam's cynicism travels through the receiver, loud and clear.

   Cas hesitates to answer, he is unsure of _how_ to answer. He doesn't want to say what Dean attempted to do, that was Cas's fault anyway. He knows in any case, if he tells Sam, the young man will only blame Dean and his drinking.

   "Dean did not do anything, Sam, I did. I may have made things ... worse. I'm sorry."

   A moment passes before Cas hears a light chuckle come through the speaker on his phone.

   "I highly doubt that buddy; tell me what happened." Sam's new tone is comforting.

   "Well ..." Cas takes a wary breath "I did not heed your warning, Sam. I went to see Dean."

   "I figured you would, you are very good at giving direction, Cas ... not so much at following it."

   Cas pauses, taken slightly aback by the accusation.

   "I feel I am very capable of following direction, Sam; but that was not _direction_ as much as it was, a suggestion."

   Another, more audible chuckle dances over the line.

   "Hey, hey, it's alright man. I just mean, whenever you feel very strongly about something, nothing stops you. It's a compliment really, not many people are so dedicated."

   Cas feels slightly guilty of his assumption. Sam has never criticized him before. There would be no reason for him to start now. Perhaps, his fatigue is getting to him more than he realized.

   "Anyways man, tell me what happened."

   Cas sighs again, catching a glimpse of his worried eyes in the rearview.

   "Well, when I went to see Dean, a woman answered the door. She was Dean's ... uh ... company for the night."

   "Yeah, and?"

   Cas isn't surprised that Sam isn't surprised.

   "Well, I wanted to speak to Dean privately so I asked her to leave. She did not- not until she was paid to do so."

   A few beats passed before Sam decided to comment.

   "Did she already, you know—do her job?" Sam's voice turned up an octave with the question. He is obviously more intuitive than Cas had been.

   "I assumed so, but after I paid her and woke up Dean to tell him that everything was alright and he did not have to worry about the transaction, he confirmed that I was wrong in my assumption."

   A pause follows Cas's words before a sharp inhale of breath pierces his ears.

   "Oh, Jesus. You cock-blocked him?" Sam laughs hysterically, causing Cas to pull the phone away from his head.

   "I don't understand that reference, Sam." But Cas is inaudible through Sam's riot. Cas imagines Sam's giant body falling out of whatever chair he's sitting in.

   "Not only did you cock-block him, you paid to have him cock blocked? Oh, Cas! Man, that's priceless!"

   Cas snorts at the remark.

   "I wish it were, but it was actually two hundred and fifty dollars. Well, three hundred. The prostitute did not have change."

   Another roar of laughter barrels through the phone. Cas pulls it away from his ear once more, waiting nearly a minute for the raucous to die down.

   "I am not finding the humor here, Sam." Cas can hear him gulping in breaths, trying to regain some composure.

   "I know, I know man. I'm sorry. Oh boy! That was good! Okay ... " Sam clears his throat and gives one last giggle "so, what did Dean do when he found out you paid her to leave?" Another muffled laugh follows the question.

   "He got very angry. He was still quite intoxicated. He, umm, pushed me against the wall."

   "What!" Sam's voice loses every ounce of humor with Cas's confession. "Did he hurt you, Cas? I swear to God, he has fucking lost his mind!"

   "No!" Cas strains up his neck and looks again at his purpling jaw in the mirror. "No Sam, he didn't hurt me."

   "You sure?" hesitation stains Sam's voice.

   "I am sure, Sam. No harm done." A twinge of guilt stabs at Castiel's temples.

   A heavy sigh slips through the line. "Okay, okay. So what's the problem then?"

   Cas can still hear the skepticism and concern on the edges of Sam's words.

   "Well, I am afraid I deprived Dean of the only thing he really wanted, other than alcohol of course; but he can come by that easily. I am curious, Sam, what other bars are there in town? The three I have already visited did not lead me to the woman I met at Dean's—or any women for that matter. "

   "Are you seriously trying to hook Dean up?" Sam blows out the question with a hurricane of doubt.

   "I want to give him back what I took away. I don't see how that's bad." Cas's brows knit together, wishing he could understand these sort of things like Sam can.

   "Yes, Cas, usually you return things you took or, uh, misplaced. But in _this_ case, just leave it alone."

   Cas's voice comes out in a flood of desperation that seems to surprise Sam, and himself more. "I can't! Please, Sam, just tell me about the other bars Dean goes to! Perhaps, the last one you saw him at? I have a feeling that is my best chance at finding the woman! Please Sam. I need to make this right."

   A reluctant sigh travels into Cas's ear.

   "Okay, okay buddy. If you have to ... I know I can't do anything to stop you anyway. You got a pen? This is going to be a long list."


	9. Fate

    Cas takes a cautious step through the door of the bar, holding his breath just in case another scented assault awaits him. This one smells clean, faintly of beer and hard liquor, but sanitary none the less. He praises the heavens for the owner's higher standards and pushes the rest of the way through the doors. He bustles down the few short steps that edge onto a makeshift dance floor. This bar is much more thoroughly themed than the last dozen he's visited. It has an old western vibe that makes every person in the bar age with a sepia tinge.

    Cas can see why Dean would be drawn to this place- it's classic. It feels more _honest_ , it doesn't try so hard to be anything other than an honest-to-goodness _bar_. Even with the cowboy hats and the horseshoes everywhere, it has a natural feel that is almost homey—a dangerous attribute for any alcoholic.

    The long wood bar-top spans the length of the far, right side of the room. Old, mercury stained bottles line the highest shelves; while more modern, pricy bottles sit below them. The bartender leans against the counter, elbows propping up his heavy torso, looming his head forward as he chuckles to a newspaper. The stools in front of the bar look old and Cas sees peanut shells and discarded napkins at their feet. Perhaps the owner isn't as concerned with cleanliness as he had first assumed, but he or she does at least keeps the smells at bay.

    Cas imagines how Dean and Sam's fight must have played out. Dean pinned to the ground beneath his giant, younger brother. He knows sober-Dean despises the height and weight difference between him and Sam; he can't imagine how much it must have irked drunk-Dean to be so easily taken. Cas always tried to comfort his friend during those times, telling him that he isn't a small man by any means—Sam is just abnormally large. The facts never seemed to ease Dean's concerns.

    Cas's thoughts are interrupted by the high trill of a woman's voice.

    "Hey, you! Mr. Grammar-Man, in the trench coat!"

    Cas turns his head, gazing to the left of the bar, only to see the woman from Dean's house, bouncing toward him. She shoots him a toothy, yellow grin and then looks down at her breasts, as if to make sure they are jiggling properly. Cas feels a smile grow across his face, which he quickly wipes away when the woman throws him a wink. He prays she didn't misconstrue the intention of that smile. It wasn't for her as much as it was for the fact that his bar hopping adventure is finally over.

    "Came back for another show?" she said, finally stopping in front Cas with a pop of her hip.

    "Not exactly." Cas said, becoming very uncomfortable with how close the woman is standing to him.

    "Oh, honey! What happened to your face?" The woman bridges the small gap between them, thrusting her pointed fingers at Castiel's jaw.

    He leans back, dodging her touch before it can land on his skin. "Would you mind taking a step back, mam? Personal space and all ..."

    The woman snickers and shakes her head just before leaning in really close, lifting her bony finger once more and poking Cas's nose.

    "No problem, sweetie."

    With that, she shuffles back a few inches—not as much as Cas would like but it does allow him to breathe a little easier.

    "So what can I do for you, cutie? You seem like the role-playing type. The quiet ones usually are." She gives a tinkled little giggle just before giving the man another lust-filled wink.

    "No, no mam ... I think you are mis-"

    "Please don't call me _mam_ , honey. I am not _that_ old." The woman says while gesturing to her own face.

    "Apologies, what is your name, so that I can address you by it?"

    "Fate."

    "Pardon?"

    "Fate, Mr. Blue Eyes, my name is Fate."

    Cas wrinkles his brow, wondering if he should ask why this woman's parents would give her such a name; but before he can work up the nerve to ask, Fate lets out another giggle and explains.

    "It's not my real name sweetie—we use fake ones in this line of work."

    "Oh. That is probably wise." Cas concedes. "In any case, it is lovely to be formally introduced to you, Fate. My name is Castiel."

    This time, the woman is the one to knit her brows in confusion. Cas manages to deduce why her expression changed so suddenly.

    "I was born on a Thursday. My parents were very religious. Castiel is the angel of Thursday."

    The woman nods a little before shrugging with a small smirk. "Honey, your parents could have named you Willy Wonka and it would make no difference to me. What can I do for you?"

    "Yes, down to business," Cas says while clasping his hands together in a tight ball. He is happy that the woman—Fate, seems much more reasonable today "I need you to visit my friend again."

    Fate gives Cas a slightly aggressive look, sucking in a deep breath and curling her smearing lips into a snarl.

    "Look, you paid me buddy, and when the day is done, it's done! If I go home with a guy, I am getting paid—it doesn't matter what happens at his place. He still took me home! Your friend can't get anything more outta me until I see more green!" The scrawny woman scoffs, her foot stomping hard on the ground to emphasize her last word.

    Cas shakes his head, desperation swimming across his skin- wanting to explain but not wanting to be swindled out of more money than he already has been. "I fully intend to pay you for _these next_ services mam. I mean, Ms. Fate. All I ask, is that you pretend you did not see me, or that this transaction took place at all. If you could act like you missed Dean, or regretted not spending more time with him, I would be very grateful."

    The woman's slack jawed expression tells the man that this is probably an odd request, or at least something new regarding this line of work.

    The silences makes his bones ache. "Again, I would be very, very grateful."

    The woman finally moves, closing her lips and shaking her head, while a dubious grin creeps across her face.

    "Doing the dirty is one thing, sweetie but _acting_ is a whole other. I will need double what you paid me last time."

    Cas sighs, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that this was going to happen.

    "Is that double the two hundred and fifty price you originally quoted me or is that double the three hundred you ended up taking?"

    The woman's grin grows wider.

    "What do you think, hot stuff?"

 

 


	10. Handling It

    The room isn't spinning, everything is in focus. Words make sense the first time he says them. Dean should be relieved, he should be happy that everything is clear; but he feels the exact opposite. His head is pounding and his fingers are shaking, begging to wrap around a cool, hard glass. He doesn't know how many times he has walked to the fridge to retrieve one of the beers he bought last night- a moment of weakness that still makes him cringe. He needs to think about something else. He decides to heat up one of Cas's pre-made meals, a weak distraction from the task at hand. It's a simple rosemary chicken and rice. It tastes good, too good. Dean tries to remember the last time he ate something besides bar food. Nothing comes to mind.

    Only a few minutes pass before he is scarfing down the last grains of rice and shreds of chicken. He sneaks a glance at his phone on the other end of the table. The rest of the house loses focus as the usually, meager flip phone seems to double in size. It looks heavy- threatening. Dean doesn't dare to touch it. He doesn't want to.

    His fork scrapes the bottom of the plastic container. He hopes more food will appear, to divert him from his inevitable call to Castiel. Nothing happens—nothing appears. Nothing will save him. The phone just looms at the top of his eye-line. Dean sighs before finally reaching out to pull the phone from across the table.

    The cell flips open easily enough, and Dean wishes that the rest would occur just the same. He opens the menu and selects his contacts. Castiel's name appears all too quickly. Dean doesn't have too many people listed in his phone—something he used to pride himself on; _Only the people who matter, matter enough to call_ , he used to say. Now, he prays for instant, careless popularity. Maybe then he wouldn't even be able to find his friend's name in the mess of other numbers.

    Dean's finger hovers over the "send" key. He wills it down but his hand doesn't budge. All his strength has drained from his muscles and down through his toes. The weight of his body is nearly unbearable. He almost feels like vomiting again—the hundredth time this past week.

    With a grunt, Dean drops his fork and pinches the phone shut. He wants a drink, no, he _needs_ a drink. He knows a stupid little phone wouldn't put up much of a fight then. He begins to talk himself into it. He begins to taste the sweet burn that slides so easily down his throat. His tongue traces sloppily over his dry lips; and he peers into the distance, as if a bottle of rum was going to come galloping over the horizon. He stares and thinks about icy vodka and dark, long necks and the corrosive liquid within. He stares until his eyes blur, forcing him to focus again- back into reality ... back onto the wall in front of him. The same wall he pushed Castiel into.

 _No!_ No drinks.

    He has to be sober for this. He can't let anything go wrong; this isn't about _him_ after all. It's about Castiel, it's about trying, desperately trying to make up for what he did. If Cas would even listen. Dean has a feeling he will though; his spotless house and full belly are proof of that. That poor, socially-awkward bastard thinks that this is his fault, a thought that Dean still can't comprehend. Although, he never could really handle the idea of taking blame for anything—not until Ben and Lisa. Even then, he's not really _handling_ it.

    His fists dance a few light punches on the table, before Dean valiantly flips open his phone once more. Not wasting a second, he finds Cas's name and takes one last deep breath in preparation. _He has to do this._ He pictures, Cas's wounded expression once more; and the way his jaw seemed slightly offset as he lay on the floor of Dean's living room. He thinks about how small his friend seemed as he carried him and tucked him into his bed. He thought about how soft Cas's hair felt when he smoothed it to the side across his forehead. The gentle, earthy smell, twisting up from the tousled locks, making Dean, in spite of everything, want to fall asleep right there, in a sea of calm.

    He has to make this right. He has to try to make this right.

    Dean presses the call button and lifts the phone to his ear, expecting to hear a ring, but getting jarred by a loud knock on the front door instead. "Ahh!" Dean growls; frustrated that anything dare interrupt his one moment of motivation. He snaps the phone shut and storms to door, whipping it open, spitting out a "What do you want?" before he even bothers to see who is on the other side.

    "Well, don't be rude now, honey—not after you were so sweet to me the other day."

    A tall bony woman stands, curved like the letter S on his porch, fingers twitching along the exposed skin of her midriff. Her patchy red lips curl into a smile, revealing nicotine stained teeth.

    "It ain't my fault you passed out before you got to know me better."

 

 


	11. Amateur

     Cas watches helplessly as the woman knocks on Dean's door. He still is shaking with relief at the sight of the Impala, safe in the driveway. The entire drive over, he was worried that Dean may not even be home- he may not even be alive. He feels positively silly now for hiding in his car, like some amateur sleuth on a stakeout. He hopes he is far enough away to be out of sight on the other side of Dean's curving street. He gave himself a little over three house-lengths—close enough to still see what is happening, but far enough away that hopefully Dean won't spot him. Cas's car is pretty inconspicuous, and Dean may, very well be drunk again; which means his observation skills are probably limited. Cas holds his breath anyway, wondering if this plan will actually work.

     He is shocked to see the door fly open so quickly. Cas is even more surprised to see Dean, upright and alert, standing tall and firm in the doorway. He watches as Fate flits her hands and bobs her head with her words. He squints, trying make out Dean's expression. So far, all Cas can tell is that Dean isn't saying a word.

     Fate continues on, rambling about god knows what. Cas prays that she is sticking to the quickly scored script he made her. Something deep within his gut however, tells him that isn't the case. He watches as Dean inhales deeply, eventually tilting his body to rest on the frame of the door. His arms lift and fold tight across his chest as watches the skinny woman slink before him.

     "He's being defensive" Cas breathes into himself, feeling his chest tighten, imagining that Dean is probably not making a happy face.

     Fate finally stills, letting her arms fall to her sides. She stands a little straighter and leans her head towards Dean, as if she is trying to hear a whisper. Cas finds himself leaning forward too, his chest pressing into the ribbed leather of his steering wheel; as if the pair's words could just fly on an expressway to his ears.

     Cas's eyes burst wide in a panic as Dean's arm unfolds and extends out— a stern finger pointing down the other length of road running through the neighborhood. Fate juts out her hip, pausing for a moment before tossing one more fluttery gesture into the air. The woman turns around, marching hard against the pavement and back down the other side of the street to her parked car. Her mouth twists and snarls with unheard expletives, that Cas is grateful aren't directed at him.

     He watches Dean, as Dean watches the woman disappear in her Pinto and down the road. The only clear features Cas can make out are Dean's slanted eyes with perfect, green glints flashing through the slits. Castiel sinks- melting into his chair, letting his head fall back against the leather headrest; it slides a bit, and Cas realizes he's been sweating profusely. Was Dean _that_ angry? So angry, he refuses something he wanted only two days ago? Refuses it because it was something from Castiel? Did he know it was Cas who sent Fate back to him? Did she tell him?

     Cas feels the frustration rock his temples. He clenches his jaw and winces—the bruise not letting him forget for even a moment that this is all his fault. He grunts, shooting his hands out and palming the steering wheel with all his force. He locks his elbows and curls his fingers over the leather; pulling back and forth violently, causing the car to rock and squeak on its hinges.

     "Fuck!"

     The dark haired man feels the word fall uneasily out of his mouth. He feels it more than he hears it, but the sound still cracks like glass against his ears. The judgmental eyes of his father suddenly gaze upon him, somehow, knowing that he is being a bad child; dirtying his mouth with such filth. Oh, how his father would have hated Dean's influence on him. Cas's stern face breaks into a brief smile—how he would have loved to _show_ his father Dean's influence on him.

     Cas reaches for his keys, gripping them tight and pulling them apart slowly, feeling for the largest one to slip into the ignition. His eyes dart up, staring blankly at Dean's now, closed front door. His touch finally finds the correct key and he moves his hand towards the slot at the base of the wheel, stopped only by the familiar beat of Dean's ringtone, filling up the muggy air of the cab.

 

 


	12. Rattled

    The line rings once. Dean holds his breath, wondering if Cas will answer. The line rings again and Dean feels his stomach start to twist—a third ring. _He isn't going to answer._ By the fourth ring, Dean pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it; his lips parted, as if to ask the phone why it won't let him to talk to Cas. Dean's fingers slide along the back of the phone's face, applying more and more pressure, getting ready to shut the damn thing and stop the dull, muted sounds of the fifth, unanswered, unforgiving, heartbreaking ring.

    "Dean! I'm so sorry!"

    The far-off hum of Cas's voice sends a shock through Dean's spine. He nearly drops the cell in the spastic frenzy of bringing back to his ear. His almond eyes stretch as Cas's voice booms through the speaker.

    "Dean, please. It was stupid of me to find her, I know that now. I just wanted to make things right! I just-"

    "Cas!" Dean grins, something he hasn't felt himself do in months. The muscles along his jaw flinch a bit from the foreign movement.

    "Dean, please, let me finish. You need to know, I never intended to upset you. I was just concerned! Sam said that you were really ... off; I know you did not want to talk to him anymore so I thought, maybe I could-"

    "Cas, shut up for a second, would ya?" Dean feels a chuckle wrap around his words. An unusual warmth is spreads through him; not the burn of whiskey or acid and bile—but a kind, gentle warmth that Dean thinks he may remember. Silence takes over the line and Dean looks at his front door.

    "Cas, I know you're down the street, man." Dean shakes his head with twitchy smile as the image of Cas, in his car, head plopped back against the headrest dances in his mind. "Would you mind coming here so we can do this face to face?" Dean hears a shaky, rasped breath slip through the grated plastic. He knows Cas is nervous; the guy is always nervous. Dean beams again at the familiarity of the sound.

    "Are ... are you angry with me Dean?"

    Dean's happiness drips from his lips. His eyes drop to the ground as if he could see where the smile had fallen to. The warmth inside him begins to burn again—the villain-guilt, waging war on the foreign-happiness he was so excited to reacquaint. Cas, Cas was _afraid_ of him. Cas was afraid to be in the same room as him. And why wouldn't he be? The last time they were together, Dean almost—

    He cuts off the thought. He doesn't want to think out loud of what he always believed he was so incapable of doing. He had never tried to force himself on a woman, none the less a guy, especially not a friend. He has beaten dudes bloody for doing crap like that; hell, he has beaten guys for far less than _doing_. Man, woman, child, it didn't matter. If Dean even heard a guy talking about that _no means yes_ shit, his blood would boil.

    His mind trails back to one particular douchebag. The guy nearly got Dean arrested. The brute of a man cornered a waitress near a restaurant that Dean was visiting. Dean didn't bother to ask for details — he just saw the tears in the waitress's eyes and the hungry look on the man's face as he imprisoned her in the alley way. That hunger was soon replaced by blood and bone shards as Dean pummeled him into the sidewalk. When the cops arrived, Dean was swiftly handcuffed and led to a squad car; his only salvation was the waitress's embellishments on what happened. Dean thanked her properly for her quick thinking a few days later; and she thanked him too. That was a good night.

    Dean envies that man now, he got what he deserved, and his face is probably still mangled from Dean's efforts. Where was _his_ consequence? Who was going to beat him bloody? Who was going to give him the scars to look at every day, to remind him of how far he has fallen? Dean would gladly take scars over this—over the sound of Castiel, frightened and nervous to be anywhere near him. That is as good as death.

    "Dean?"

    "No, no Cas. I am not angry with you. I ... I promise. Please, come here. I won't-" Dean gulps down the boulder-sized lump that's choking his words. "I won't hurt you, man."

    Silence again.

    Dean falls into the armchair that sits, facing the front door. His elbows stab at his knees as his free hand swipes over his face. Dean shoots glances up at the ceiling, the whites of his eyes, overflowing his bottom lids. His chest heaves heavy, unsatisfying breaths into the air. _He doesn't trust him anymore. How could Cas ever trust him after what he's done?_ Cas's rattled voice makes Dean bite at his own.

    "Okay Dean, I'll be right there."


	13. No Command

     His feet are stone. Cas can't move them any further. The muscles in his legs have given up and all his recent, sleepless nights are charging at him with full speed. Exhaustion makes every joint weak; it makes him slightly nauseous and Cas wonders if he can even form words without yawning and vomiting all at once.

     There he is, helpless on Dean's doorstep. Neither able to move or breath. He is going to faint, he knows it.

     The door begins to shift, striking Cas with a bolt of adrenaline. His heart pounds and stops in chaotic rhythm as he sees Dean step through. The tall man looks like he has just showered and shaved— and Cas almost doesn't recognize him. It has been months since Dean looked like he took pride in his own appearance. Castiel almost forgot all those extra minutes he would spend waiting for Dean to fix his hair or pick out the right shirt. The man would never admit it, but he liked to look good. Castiel had admired that in Dean- he missed it more than he thought he would when Dean started to fall.

     But now, he almost looks like he used to. Almost- a little more tired. A little thinner. Dean is wearing a corded, long sleeved shirt that grips tightly to his folded arms. The sleeves are pushed up, adding a bit more bulk to the already rounding muscles hidden beneath. Cas has always liked that shirt on his friend. It was the same color as his eyes and it makes him look kinder than the leather, biker jacket he usually encases himself in. He knows Dean wants to look intimidating but Cas has always favored the softer side—that was the side he first met. That was the side he became fast friends with. Until recently, that was the only side Dean had ever shown him.

     "Hey Cas."

     Dean leans into the door frame like Cas saw him do earlier, this time—not looking defensive, just looking like _Dean._

     "Dean, I—really am sorry."

     "Cas, you _really_ need to stop apologizing."

     Dean smiles and Cas smiles back; a deeply engrained reaction that he has tried to analyze in the past, but quickly resolved to just be happy that it happens.

     "Can you come in?" Dean's eyebrows rise with the question as he shifts his body to the side and gestures into the house.

     Cas nods meagerly just before moving past the taller man and into the living room—still spotless from when he cleaned it before. Relief washes over him as he notices the lack of liquor bottles or smell of stale beer. There is only the faint scent of lemon cleaner and rosemary. Cas grins to himself with the deduction that Dean found one of the meals he made.

     The door shuts softly behind him with a gentle _click_. Cas takes a deep breath as he turns around to face Dean. He holds the air tight in his lungs as his eyes falls on the hurt and concern wrecking Dean's usually perfect features.

     "Are you alright, Dean?" Cas's worry contorts his face to mirror his friend's.

     "No Cas, I need to be the one apologizing and I haven't done that yet. I don't—I don't even know how to start."

     "Oh ..."

     Cas begins cursing his weakness with words for the millionth time in his life—if there were ever a moment to know what to say, this would be it. But he has never felt more helpless. _This_ is when he would normally be calling Dean, and asking for pointers on how to speak. He would express to him, in his befuddled way, what he would like to say, and Dean would laugh and mock playfully, just before winding together some artfully shaped sentences that Cas would later mutilate. The results, in any case, still better than anything Cas could come up on his own

     "Cas, buddy, I can't ... I can't explain why I did what I did. I was so drunk and, well ... I have just been so, so fucking pissed at the world! I just . . . I know, that's no excuse. But, I just-"

     Cas is still—amazed that Dean is sounding like he often does: confused, scared, unaware of the words he wants or even how to use the ones he has. He wants to stop the man, keep him from the torture he knows all too well.

     "I am just, so, so sorry Cas. You have no idea how sorry I am." Dean looks at the ground, his arms are tight along the length of his body, and his hands fumble inside his pockets. Cas likens him to a scolded child in a room full of breakables. "I want you to not be—to not be scared of me."

     Dean looks up from under his brow, his green eyes reddening slightly as the corners dampen, just enough that Cas thinks Dean hasn't even noticed yet. The sight makes his heart explode. He has never seen Dean look so hurt. Even at Ben and Lisa's funerals, there was guilt on Dean's face and he knows how broken Dean was, but this look was something else completely. Cas hates it and every fiber in him wants to manually reshape Dean's features. He needs Dean to smile again.

     "Dean, I am not afraid of you, I could never-" Cas feels his voice hitch and something within him really wants to feel Dean's arm around his shoulder, instantly making him feel selfish for thinking of his own comfort as Dean falls apart in front of him. "I could never be afraid of you." Cas finds himself closer to Dean before he even realizes his feet have moved. He tilts his head slightly, leaning in, as if to will the words through his friend's ears. Dean doesn't back away, surprising Cas a little—they usually aren't this close to one another and he thought it would be making the man uncomfortable by now. Dean's shoulders rise a bit as he looks back down at the ground.

     "I wish I could say the same, Cas. I scared myself back there."

     Castiel watches as his friend lets out a long, rickety breath. He desperately wants Dean to look at him. Green eyes finally rise and meet his own as he stumbles on words to say. Before he can think of a single one, Dean's gaze falls slightly and Cas wonders a moment before realizing that Dean is looking at his bruised jaw. Cas turns his head the opposite way, wanting to hide what is there; he doesn't need his friend feeling any more guilt.

     Dean's right hand pulls smoothly from his pocket and rises up; Cas watches in bated breath as Dean's fingers come up to touch the stubbled angles of his jaw. The action seems out of character. Cas knows Dean likes to keep his hands to himself. Even the occasional hug makes him jittery. He starts to wonder if Dean even realizes what he is doing.

     "Your face ..." Dean says, voice wrecked.

     "It's okay, Dean." Cas offers, knowing it will do little.

     "Okay?" Dean looks desperately into Cas's eyes; his mouth sagging open—lips, shaking with doubt. "It's so not okay, Cas!"

     Dean's voice is low but strong, heavy with guilt, and with what Cas can only assume is exhaustion—he hears it in himself.

     "Dean, I'm fine ... really." Cas can't even finish the words before Dean is pushing past him. He watches as the man storms beyond the kitchen and down the dark hall. His fading silhouette stops halfway, shadowy hands reaching up to his hair and gripping it tight. Cas wants to say something, but again- no words come out. Dean turns partially back, facing the wall. A fierce grunt escapes his lips as his fist makes contact with white plaster, shaking the house.

     Castiel freezes, wondering a moment if he _is_ afraid—afraid to feel that fist again, but the sudden forward motion of his body tells him differently. Dean's muffled sobs grow louder as Cas closes in. He watches as Dean slides down the opposite wall, his face hidden beneath his large hands. He touches ground and folds his arms across his knees, letting his head fall into the space between them. Dean's shoulders drop and Cas can hear his chest battle against the attack of restrained emotion.

     Cas looms over him for a moment, unsure of what his next move should be. Dean doesn't look up even though Cas knows, he is aware of his presence in the hall. The tears have been sucked back, making the crumpled man take short little gasps, trying to calm himself down; an attempt to avoid looking weak. Cas has seen Dean cry before, he hates the sight but he knows Dean hates the vulnerability more.

     Cas takes a small step back, turning on his heels before sliding his back down the wall. The final drop leaves him resting just beside his friend. The two men sit in silence a moment. Cas—head back, legs outstretched, his hands clasped in his lap, staring seemingly at nothing; Dean, a tightly closed off ball of a man beside him.

     "None of this is your fault, Dean." The words slip softly off of Cas's tongue; they come easily. He breathes in deep and watches Dean's shoulders tense out of the corner of his eye.

     "Ben, Lisa ... me. None of it. You carry all this blame—blame for things that were accidental, or the result of too many unfortunate events." Cas drops his chin to his chest, turning his head a touch to observe the form of the man beside him.

     "You are a strong man Dean Winchester, but even _you_ don't have the command to ruin everything like you think you do."

     There is a quietness over the house, the air seems to freeze as Cas's words trail into the vapors.

     Dean's ears pull back, as if something is grabbing them and slowly lifting his head from the nest of his arms. He turns and looks at Castiel, his jaw slightly slacked. Bloodshot eyes, still dampened by old tears. Cas remains static, letting Dean collects him in his sights.

     He feels his chest tighten as his friend of seven years pulls his back off the wall and leans in close. Strong, gentle fingers pinch Cas's chin and pull him in, closing the gap between the two men. He feels his lips connect with the warmth and softness of Dean's.

     An aching second passes before Castiel realizes what is happening. Someplace in the back of his mind tells him he should pull away, but he ignores the suggestion, just like Sam said he would

     Instead, he presses in lightly, feeling the same sort of calm he always feels when Dean wraps his arm around his shoulders or gives him the occasional hug. Cas closes his eyes and relaxes his rigid muscles, allowing the rest of his body to fall towards Dean. He sips in the scent of Dean's aftershave, as pleasant hints of rosemary dance along his tongue.

 

 


	14. Quiet House

     A floodgate has opened inside him. He no longer feels reluctant tears or burning guilt, it's just . . . openness. A quiet calm that is all but quiet—it is conflicting in the best way and he can't even understand why. Dean, pulls at the feeling, he pulls it tight into himself. He can feel its force against him, brushing against his lips, softly but full of intent—like it wants him to be happy just as much as he wants to be.

     Dean's eyes open-muscles snap. He is in his hallway. He is in his hallway with Castiel.

     His tailbone grinds against the floorboard as he rips away from Cas's lips.

     "Dean, I ..."

     Dean feels his jaw fall at the sight of Cas's rounded, wide blue eyes, burrowing into him.

     "Dean, did you _mean_ to?"

     Dean isn't sure. He wants to answer him but all he can do is shake, a meager sapling standing against a whirlwind of confusion.

     Words bubble up from somewhere in his throat, not even sure of what they'll be, "Cas, I-, I didn't ... fuck!"

     Dean looks away, he can't handle Cas's unblinking, inquisitive stare. He doesn't know how to make this clear to himself, none the less to Castiel. He isn't drunk, he isn't angry—in fact, a moment ago, he felt more in control than he had in months. Now, now he's floundering.

     "Dean, I ... I-"

     He spins his gaze back to the dark haired man next to him; he knows what he is going to say. He knows he just did what he swore he would never do again, he terrified his best friend. He pushed himself on him in a whole new way, and even worse—he was sober while doing it.

     Dean pulls himself to his feet, stumbling in the effort, keeping his eyes locked on Castiel. He backs away down the hall, feeling behind him for the door handle to his room. He bumps into it, his knuckles taking the brunt of the force, making him wince.

     Cas just stares. Lips parted—eyes, starting a downward turn towards the floor.

     "I'm sorry!" Dean yelps before tipping through his door and shutting it behind him. He turns and faces the inside of his room. He closes his eyes and collapses back, letting his head plop onto the wood with an all too audible _thud._ He hears Cas scurry off the ground and make his way down the remaining length of the hall. A light tap seeps through the grain, vibrating Dean's skin.

     "Dean, it's okay. I ... I am not upset." Cas's voice is muted and small.

     Dean squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head violently until his neck pops, "Cas, I don't know what's wrong with me!"

     "Nothing is wrong with you, Dean."

     Dean hurls out a spit-filled breath.

     "I keep taking this shit out on you, man! In one way or the other—you're on the receiving end! I can't keep doing this to you!"

     His hands are balled into fists on the face of the door.

     "You didn't do anything to me, Dean. Please, open the door and we can talk about this." Cas's pleas only cut deeper into him.

     "No ... Cas. Please, just go." Dean feels an awkward jerk at his chest as he says the words.

     "Dean, I can't just leave!" Suddenly, Cas's rasped voice is booming through the door, punching Dean in the gut.

     "Please, Cas." Dean mumbles pathetically. The jolt stabs his chest again.

     A quiet falls over the house. Dean stares; panicked eyes, wide and matching mouth shooting silent, weighted breaths across the room. He hears Cas's hand fall flat against the opposite side of the door.

     "Is that really what you want, Dean? You want me to leave?" his voice is low again, but still assertive, making Dean feel small and helpless.

     "Yes, Cas, please. I don't want to—please, just go."

     Dean doesn't even recognize himself. He sounds so defeated, he sounds so broken. The most worrisome of all: he isn't sure if he sounds that way because he just forced himself on Castiel again, or for knowing that, in a few short moments, Cas will be gone.

 

 


	15. Primates

     The lock on his front door has several fresh gouges from his misbehaving keys. Cas doesn't even remember the ride home. He just knows that when he left Dean's house—he was furious. Cas is furious . . . with Dean and with himself. Dean _should_ be talking with him about this. Dean is the one who initiated things; he initiated them twice now and he was sober for the last one; and seemingly _sane_. He should have talked about it with him! Cas should have made him come out and talk about it.

     What exactly _it_ was ... is, Cas has not an utter clue; but it's something, and he needs to figure it out.

     His entryway is a blur and his kitchen is nothing but streaks of terracotta, orange. Cas isn't wasting a moment on his usual, evening routine. The mail is not getting sorted and the basil and fresh rosemary plants on his kitchen window sill will have to wait for water. Within a breath of being inside, Cas is already in his office, arms full of every biology, psychology, and relative biography book he owns. He throws in some Shakespeare and the bible for good measure. His computer flashes with work emails and concerned notes from his boss. He never calls out sick but these past few days were a necessary exception. He doesn't want to bother with explaining now, there are more important things than work.

     He is going to find out what is happening to him and what is happening to Dean; because something _is_ happening. That kiss ... it was something to Cas. He felt it and if he didn't know any better, and sadly, he doesn't—he thinks Dean felt it too. Dean kissed _him_ after all. As far as Cas can tell about the American, social norms, people don't just kiss people in completely lucid states; not unless there is a desire beneath the act. Cas felt that desire when he participated, of that, he is certain. He needs to be sure of the possibilities for Dean.

     This isn't going to be like the pointless research he has done in the past. The variations of English and the subtleties of social conversation were a lost cause. There is no calculable way to come about such things. The human mouth is an unpredictable monster and Cas can't even trust his own. Attraction, however, now that is biological. We are all animals, after all and we all are drawn to something; whether it is through pheromones or psychological similarities—Cas can break it down to facts.

     He begins with an anthropology text. Cas looks at certain primates and their mating dynamics. The chapter leads him to species that involve themselves in social intercourse, "sex for fun", so to speak. Cas is intrigued, Dean apparently lives by this chapter. He knows there is a possibility that Cas is just part of a physical need to Dean, it wouldn't be logical to ignore the research.

     "The bonobos often use group sex as an award system upon finding food; gender plays no part in these experiences. Male bonobos will engage in penis/anal penetration with other males; and females will insert their tongues and other body parts—even foreign objects into the vaginal cavities of other females of the species."

     Castiel nods to himself as he reads the science out loud. He thinks back to his anthropology class and how his professor stressed that homophobia was strictly a _human_ perception. Cas has attempted to explain this fact to Dean and Sam in the past but the knowledge never seemed to sway their concern. Other males paying too much attention to them—specifically if physical contact ever occurred, made the Winchesters very uncomfortable, Dean especially. Dean frequently used being gay as an insult; Castiel had lectured him on how the negative connotation was more insulting than the accusation itself. Dean did not seem to care.

     That seems to be changing now, though. Dean is sober, or was at the point of the kiss—Castiel could have, very well been a type of reward for Dean, something to round out his new-found clarity. Dean is not, however, a bonobo. The aftermath of the kiss, in any case, deterred Castiel from that theory; he would not be Dean's first choice when it came to rewarding good behavior. He probably wouldn't even be his last.

     He slides the anthropology book aside and moves onto human biology. Pheromones were always a wonder to Castiel. He knows that certain scents can have direct effects on emotion and memory but the actual chemical makeup of a person, being able to exude a smell that only certain other persons were drawn to—fascinating! Perhaps he has Dean's desired pheromones. Perhaps that is why Dean came up to him in that bar so long ago. Beyond the stench of beer and college girls' overused perfume, Dean could sense Cas on a physical level. Cas certainly was drawn to Dean in some way; he just never thought it was more than admirable friendship until now.

     Cas studies and studies. He moves from the science of the body to the science of the mind and how individuals find matches in other human beings. Common lifestyles and personal income are of heavy focus; as well as equilibrium between a pair's moral choices. Cas feels his heart sink slightly; from where he sits, there is nothing common between him and Dean. He has a steady income, where Dean takes odd jobs and is always changing his mind. Cas prefers order and cleanliness and by the state of Dean's house, before Cas gave it a deep sanitation—Dean does not lose sleep over living in filth. Their moral paths, well, Cas cannot really be sure. He wants to think that he and Dean would make the same choices when it came to the greater-good, but Dean's addiction to alcohol and his ability to lose himself in times of extreme intoxication makes him think that he may have some ugliness deep down. Even though, nothing that he has seen so far is ugly to Cas.

     The green, ribbed shirt Dean was wearing pounces vividly on his mind. He had never allowed himself to think too long on Dean's physique, or facial features but he _has_ thought about them. The hue of Dean's eyes when he wears that shirt is intoxicating and Cas knows that whenever Dean puts it on, he can't help but stare at his face for far too long. He attributed it to being an observant man. After all, he always enjoyed color and would often gaze at the beautiful things of the world. Dean just happened to be one of them.

     He shakes his head. Trying to stay focused on the task at hand is difficult with such images fogging his brain. The compilation of Shakespearian sonnets and plays catches his eye. _Oh, unrequited love_ , the backbone of the Englishman's fame. What _if_ all of this is one sided? What if Cas has unearthed something he has buried long ago, while Dean just wanted to experiment with something new? He was just trying something in a moment of stress and confusion—a desperate grasp at control. Castiel could be the only one caring this much.

     He thinks back to the Bonobos. Could he be content just being something frivolous? A one-time reward? He honestly doesn't believe he could be. There is a chance, after all, that Dean _does_ feel the same way—or could feel the same, in time. Whatever that feeling might be ... what if he does?

     "What if?" Cas breathes the thought out to himself.

     The idea is terrifying just as much as it is exciting. What would they do? Would they attempt a relationship? Would there be _sex_? Cas's only experiences with that sort of physicality were all very awkward and ultimately, disappointing. The females he chose or that chose him, never seemed to appreciate him after the act was completed. He often thought maybe, he was doing something wrong. He studied the variations of intercourse and could not come to a viable conclusion of the resulting disarray of emotion. He eventually resolved, that he had just not found the right match yet.

     The _bonobos_ didn't care about the right match, they were always pleased afterwards. Cas feels like he is the opposite of a bonobo—he is a male cat, with a barbs along the shaft of his penis, making intercourse with others, a spastic and chaotic act. Castiel doesn't want to be a cat. He doesn't really want to be a bonobo either. One, however, is better than the other. Maybe, maybe Dean will turn him into a bonobo ... that is, if Dean is a bonobo too.

 

 


	16. Vices

     " _Oh, fuck. Does he know?"_ Dean panics, shutting the front door behind him.

     Sam stands in Dean's living room, looking around, obviously surprised by how neat everything is.

     "So, man, how ya doin'?" Sam asks in that annoying way that implies he knows something and is waiting for Dean to confirm it.

     "I'm alright, I guess." Dean says, his voice flicking up at the end, making it seem as if isn't sure; and honestly, he isn't.

     "Good. That's good to hear, Dean." Sam responds, his back still turned to the door since walking in the house.

     Sam takes a deep breath after his words, turning around, eyes shut—obviously gearing up to what he has really come here to say.

     "So, I umm, I talked to Cas last night."

     "... Oh." Dean whispers, eyes traveling down to his shoes.

     He was worried that, that is the reason Sam went back on his claim of being "done" with him. Dean knows his little brother usually doesn't change his mind so quickly, not unless there is something else going on-something bigger. Has Sam upgraded from sober-coach to predator-watch? Dean doesn't want to know, but then again, he needs to be prepared for whatever is about to thrown his way. He doesn't want to fight, and really, he knows he deserves anything Sam can dole out; but Dean just isn't sure if he can have _this_ conversation with him now. He feels Sam's eyes on his brow. He doesn't want to look up; there is nothing worthwhile in meeting his glare.

     "What ... what did he tell you?" Dean finally chokes out, directing his query towards the floor.

     Sam pauses a beat before answering; he obviously wants to watch Dean suffer.

     "He said ... that you were sober and that you seemed, _better_."

     Dean snaps his head up, focusing all his attention on his brother.

     "He did?"

     Sam gives him a concerned smirk.

     "Yeah. Why? Was he lying?"

     Dean wants to say yes, but at the same time, he _is_ feeling better. Ever since yesterday evening, ever since the "incident" with Castiel, he is feeling better; but, for the life of him, he can't understand why.

     "No, you know Cas; he can't lie for crap." Dean lets loose a quick smile "I guess, I guess I do feel better."

     "That's great man, it really is." Sam grins big for a moment, just before his mouth drops somberly once more. "So, no drinking?" Sam doesn't blink, as if he will miss Dean's answer if he does.

     "Uh, yeah, man. I haven't had a drink since the night before last." Dean says while rubbing the back of his neck uneasily.

     Sam's eyes light up as he takes one giant step towards his older brother and wraps him in a hug that nearly crushes his ribs.

     "Jesus! Yeah ... love you too Sammy, but you're going to break me in half!"

     Sam lets out chortle and releases Dean from his vices. Dean shakes his head and gives a shy smile; he doesn't like all this attention. Drunk or sober, he still feels like a project to Sam. He is only ever something in need of editing or grading.

     "You want a beer man?" Dean asks while walking to the kitchen, desperate to change the subject—instantly realizing that he is doing the exact opposite.

     Sam gives him the bitchiest of looks.

     "Dean, you just said—"

     "Relax Sammy, there's only one bottle left and I am having apple juice."

     The bitchiness is soon replaced with complete confusion.

     "Apple juice? How old are you, _five_?" Sam snorts, his eyebrows in the air and a curl in his lip.

     "Shut it! Cas bought it and, in any case, apple juice is good!" Dean shoots back while his head buried in the fridge.

     Sam smiles and gives him a comforting laugh as Dean makes his way back into the living room.

     "Okay, okay man—as long as it's _only_ apple juice in that glass."

     Dean flips his brother the bird with his left hand while handing him his last beer with his right. Sam smiles and takes the bottle; giving him a slap on the back just before Dean turns once more towards the kitchen.

     "I am really glad to have you back, Dean."

     Dean feels his neck turn hot and red, Sam is just determined to make this all about his apparent "recovery."

     The apple juice sloshes into the tall glass and Dean finds himself searching for the scent of whiskey as the last drop hits the surface. A drink _would_ be nice right now; especially since he feels himself getting frustrated. He can't handle another Sam-lecture, and he wants to tell his baby brother to zip it; but that would probably bring about an even more infuriating speech from the giant's lips. Dean chooses to fight the urge to be an ass.

     "Well, I didn't really go anywhere Sammy, but I know what you mean."

     "You may not have gone anywhere Dean, but I sure as hell felt like you were lost for a while."

     Dean rolls his eyes as he walks around his moose of a sibling, who seems to be taking up half of his small living room.

     "Jesus, can we stow the chick flick moments, man? I just want to have a drink with my brother; even if it _is_ apple juice."

     Dean plops down on the couch and Sam follows suit, sitting in the armchair that sits just off to the side. They both stay in silence for a few minutes, slurping their drinks and letting enough time pass, that Dean hopes there is a subject change on deck.

     "So, Cas says you pushed him into the wall?"

     Dean lets out a groan, letting his head dip back onto the couch cushion.

     "I was drunk Sammy, what do you want me to say?"

     "Well, apologizing to Cas would be a good place to start."

     Dean shoots an inquisitive stare at his know-it-all brother. He thought Sam would have been better informed about what happened last night with him and Castiel, but apparently, Cas left out a lot in their phone conversation. Dean gives a little grunt as his rubs his thumbs along the sides of his misty glass, watching intently as the water beads and falls to the base.

     "That was why I stopped drinking, Sam. I wanted to be dry when I apologized to Cas. I owed him that much."

     Sam looks down at the rim of his bottle and nods.

     "Yeah."

     The short response is music to Dean's ears. Sam must finally be content with how he is handling something; at least enough to not already have another to-do list prepared. His little brother has always felt it necessary to micromanage everything and Dean is usually the main subject of all that managing. For now, however, Dean relaxes into the couch as the cleared air fills the room.

     "So, you find any work recently?" Sammy looks at him, a soft expression about his face.

     Dean smiles at his brother's silent acknowledgment of the need to talk about anything else.

     "Not yet, but I am thinking about giving my old boss a call—see if he has anything available. I think he is running that new construction sight downtown. Looks pretty big, they may need some extra hands."

     Sam nods again and begins commenting on the other construction jobs he has seen listed on work websites or in the paper. Dean isn't surprised that Sam has kept an eye on such things for him; the guy prides himself on being helpful, even in spite of everyone else.

     Dean listens vaguely as his brother rambles on, happy at the normalcy of the moment; Sam, talking too much and Dean, pretending to listen. He has Cas to thank for this, in a roundabout way-with some horrible consequences; but Castiel was behind it all. If he hadn't come over and kicked out that hooker, Dean would probably still be drowning in his own mess.

     In fact, that's the only thing missing, the only thing leaving Dean wanting. _Cas isn't here_. He isn't contributing to the conversation, distracting Sam from Dean's complete distraction. He isn't eagerly, offering to clean up or to cater to everyone's needs. Dean would usually be calling him a "house-wife" by now or making some joke about how Cas is whipped—at least that is what he used to do; presently, however, it all seems to take on a different meaning.

     Dean misses the guy. He misses his presence here. He misses his laugh. He misses the blank stare he would get with almost all of Dean's jokes. Dean even misses the way he always had to explain the punchlines, eventually making them painfully un-funny. Cas makes every moment interesting in some way and he always has some hilarious little tid-bit to offer; even if he didn't intend for it to be hilarious. Yes, there was something missing from the normalcy of this moment alright, turning it more awkward and uncomfortable by the second.

     Sam's voice fades away completely as the realization dawns on Dean- he may never see Cas like that again.

 

 


	17. Too Bad

     Castiel just can't help the goofy smile on his face; he has been wearing it lovingly ever since he had the idea last night. Why he didn't think of it before three in the morning—is beyond him. The excitement coursing through his body, however, seems to be keeping the exhaustion at bay.

_Pie_

     Sweet, flaky, perfectly, golden brown pie! Dean loves pie. Cas has heard the rants countless times: Dean would _kill_ for pie. Dean would "blow" someone for pie—whatever _that_ means. Dean has even said that if a pie and his mother were trapped in a fire, he would save the pie first. "Nobody likes burnt pie!" Dean exclaimed. Cas thought the scenario was unrealistic and distasteful. He hopes now, that that wasn't one of those "differences in morals" that could hinder any possibility of him and Dean getting along.

     Cas has already rolled out the dough and finished the filling; fresh cherries mixed with a drop of honey mixed into an almost sickeningly-sweet syrup. Now, he just needs to put everything together and bake it. The lattice top comes out perfectly and Cas is quite pleased with how well he has executed this new project.

     The hour of baking seems to span the length of twelve. It takes all of Cas's self-control not to keep peeking into the oven. By the last beep of the timer, Cas is already in the kitchen—whipping open the oven door while grinning ear to ear. It looks perfect. Dean is going to love it; he has to.

     The scene plays for the hundredth time in his mind. He will show up to Dean's door, pie in hand. Dean will be surprised, a little weary at first but soon, ecstatic when he smells the perfect pastry Cas has prepared. They will sit and talk and eat—clearing things up once and for all. Cas hopes that Dean will be open to exploring new possibilities for their friendship- maybe making it into something else; but, he prepares himself for the opposite outcome, just in case. He practices how he will react if Dean tells him it was all a big misunderstanding. Cas knows it will hurt, but the idea of sitting in this house one second longer without getting his words out to Dean, is pure torture.

     The pie cools for another thirty minutes, giving Cas just enough time to send a detailed e-mail to his boss. He explains how personal matters have come up and he feels he will need to rest of the week to tie up the loose ends. Castiel doesn't like skirting his responsibilities but if he does not at least try to figure things out with Dean, he may as well quit his job and become a-hermit. What good is life without friends and loyalty?

     The pie is soon packed away in a large, plastic container and tightly barricaded in passenger seat of his car. With the precious cargo set, Cas climbs in, gripping the wheel and nodding to himself in the mirror just before turning over the engine. "You can do this, Castiel" he chants to himself. "You have to do this right!"

     The drive to Dean's is much slower than the drive home yesterday. Every light is red, every crosswalk is full. Cas keeps serving concerned looks to the container next to him—as if it will rot in the extra ten minutes added to his trip. As he finally pulls up, he wonders if he should have called first; he knows Dean doesn't like surprises—then again, Dean apparently didn't like homosexual interaction but has attempted it twice now with Castiel. He supposes that people can change . . . hopefully.

     After a shaky walk to the door, Castiel leaves three short, forceful knocks on the green painted door. He hears the shuffle of feet, a gentle slow swipe across the carpet and jeans rustling against skin. The door handle swivels and clicks just before a crack appears between it and the frame. Dean's emerald eyes peek through, making him panic when he finds he can hardly breathe.

     "Oh. Cas, I—I wasn't expecting you ... here." Dean opens the door wider, but not completely, just enough so that he can lean the front of his body against the frame, letting his head hang through. Cas begins to fidget, thinking that Dean looks far more hesitant than he had in his imagination.

     "I'm sorry for dropping in without notice, Dean. I just thought that you might like this." Cas says, eagerly holding up the boxed pie, like a child presenting his crayon scribbles to his parent. Dean reaches out his arm through the narrow opening and cautiously takes the container.

     "It's pie. I made it myself." Cas yips, becoming embarrassed of just how trivial he is sounding.

     "Oh, um, thanks man. It looks good." Dean says without looking inside.

     The two men stand in silence. Cas looks on helplessly as his intended friendship-saving, miracle pastry gets only a fraction of the attention it deserves. Dean's eyes just dance back and forth from Cas's face to some unknown spot across the street. After another painful few seconds, Dean lets out an uncomfortable cough, breaking the aching quiet.

     "Do-do you want to come in?" Dean asks, sounding about as enthusiastic as he did over the pie.

     "May I?" Cas responds quickly, determined to say what he has come here to say, awkward or not.

     Dean backs up, opening the door wide, stepping far off to the edge, as if Cas was a toxic thing making his way into his house. Cas slides inside and turns to face Dean, hoping that he will take it upon himself to make Cas feel comfortable—that is what Dean used to do anyway. Castiel couldn't be in the man's house for more than a second without already having a drink in hand and a soft cushion beneath him. Now he just stands, motionless, waiting to be told what to do and where to go. Dean looks terrified to even open his mouth. Castiel sighs, realizing the talking is going to be up to him— _ironic_.

     "Should I slice a piece of that for you?" Cas asks finally, gesturing towards the box in Dean's white-knuckle grip.

     "Oh, uh, sure." Dean says, jerking the box forward, making Cas wince as he hears his perfect crust, crumble against the side of the container.

     Cas takes it gingerly in his hands before shuffling into the kitchen and gathering a knife and two small plates. He cuts into his slightly disheveled creation, careful not to do any further damage. Once the perfect triangles are placed in place, he sighs- praying that the rest of this goes according to plan. He returns to the living room, noticing Dean, still stuck beside the front door. Cas places the plates down on the coffee table, side by side—an orientation that he was accustomed to in Dean's home. He sits down on the couch in front of the setting, forks in hand, eventually separating them and holding one out to Dean across the room. Dean watches him, something unsure in his eyes- eventually sighing as he inches towards the suspended utensil.

     Gripping the silverware at the prongs, he slides it from Castiel's fingers. Cas's knotted stomach tumbles as Dean picks up his plate and steps a few inches back, making it apparent that the spot Castiel has reserved beside himself on the couch would remain empty. _What is wrong?_ He can't understand it. He didn't kiss Dean, he didn't start this this time! Why is the man acting this way? He's acting like a child! Cas drops his fork onto the table, letting it clank dramatically on the edge of the plate.

     "Dean, we really should talk about what happened yesterday." Cas says, his voice, raspy and low with every form of frustration.

     Dean stabs at his pie, keeping his eyes on his plate, not saying a word.

     "You know we have to talk about it. I know _I_ have to. It was a very ... _confusing_ experience, Dean!" Cas leans forward with his words, bracing his hands on his knees, wanting to show the stoic man just how serious he is. "Will you talk about this with me, Dean? Please?"

     Stillness overcomes the room once more before Dean finally lets out an exacerbated sigh. He sets his mutilated pie back down on the coffee table, with not a morsel ever gracing his lips.

     "I really don't know what to say, Cas." Dean whispers, straightening himself and shoving his hands in the pockets of his old, faded jeans. "I am kinda confused by the whole thing too."

     Cas relaxes his spine, letting the sound of Dean's mutual unrest ease his rigid muscles.

     "I just want to know ... why you did it? Why did you kiss me?"

     The disgust that flashes across Dean's face was like anther punch to his jaw.

     "Ah, c'mon man. I can't talk about this!" Dean throws his hands up in the air as he turns his back to Castiel.

     Cas feels every muscle solidify. He knew Dean might be a little reluctant to this discussion but it seems as if he could care less that their long-time friendship hangs in the balance.

     "Too bad, Dean!" his frustration boils over. "You are going to talk about it! I need you to!" Cas feels himself rear up from the couch. He marches around the side of the table until he is just a breath away from Dean's side.

     The taller man looks at Cas from the corner of his eye—the new proximity making his chest expand and fear quake in his green, shrinking irises

     "Cas, I really don't know what to say about it." Dean whispers again, leaning back slightly as Cas leans into his words.

     "Well, that isn't good enough Dean. You started all of this after all. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for your drinking and your spontaneity." Cas doesn't notice that the growl in his voice is booming louder and louder. "You pushed me against that wall, Dean. You kissed me in the hallway. You did these things and then kicked me out, apparently, without a care of how it would affect me; without a care of how it would affect our friendship!"

     Castiel frightens himself with his fury, not really sure exactly where its been buried all this time. He watches as Dean's posture straightens. The green eyed man hardens his face, pulling back his ears and knitting his eyebrows together in a ball.

     "Is that what you think? You think I don't care about any of that?" Dean hunches his shoulders, almost looming over Castiel. " _That_ is all I care about! That is all I have left to care about, Cas! I haven't slept because I keep thinking that I just fucked everything up again. I keep thinking that I pushed away my best friend and that Sammy will give up on me once and for all if he ever finds out what . . . what I did to you!" Dean steps into the final spaces between him and Castiel.

     "Cas," Dean's open hand sways in the little air between them, " _this_ is all I care about."

 

 


	18. Wrecked

     The air that tumbles into Dean's lungs is rich with Castiel's breath. He stares at his friend's eager, blue eyes, searching for answers that Dean just doesn't know. He cannot form any combinations of words that would make any of this make sense; and the longer Cas looks at him, the more confused he becomes.

     "Do you?" Cas's rough voice rattles low, shaking Dean to the core.

     "D-do I, what?" Dean asks, his eyes wide, darting from one blue inquisitor to the other.

     "Do you really care about _this_?" Cas asks, retracing the line Dean had just made between their chests.

     Dean opens his mouth, but all he can do is let out a strangled breath and nod.

     Cas smiles. Dean watches every laugh line appear, splintering off the edges of his eyes. Little half-moons dance upon the corners of the man's mouth, curving his cheeks up, fracturing the edges more. When they first met, Cas didn't have those lines.

     He nearly jumps when he feels his friend's hand glide up his arm, wrapping long fingers around his elbow. The grip was tight, stronger than Dean would have expected from timid-Castiel. He feels a quick pull that rocks him forward, closing the small gap between their bodies. Cas rolls onto the balls of his feet, lifting himself up, until his nose touches the tip of Dean's. Dean braces himself, both hands instinctively coming up and clasping his friend's arms, just beneath his shoulders. They both are still for a moment, looking down at each other's cheeks, inspecting the slightly-blurred images of their melding features. Dean finally draws his eyes up, feeling his body shake as Cas does the same.

     Cas seems to explode, his mouth smashing into Dean's—lips capturing the pillowy curves of his own. He almost falls backwards but Castiel is already there, sliding his hands across Dean's shoulder blades to the center of his back, and then diverging them; his left falling just above the waistband of Dean's jeans, and the right, up to the nape of his neck.

     Dean's mouth responds how it always has when being furiously kissed, even though his mind is firing off a thousand questions per second. _What the hell is going on? Am I seriously doing this? Oh my god, oh my god! I'm kissing a dude! I'm kissing Cas! I am-_

     Castiel knows him too well. He knows Dean's mind is overworking- suddenly Dean's lips are abandoned for the curve of his jaw, and the length of his throat

     Tiny bites and elusive licks trace the stubble that shades Dean's edges. He closes his eyes—quickly lost in the feeling of someone paying so much attention to the details of his skin. He allows his hands to slip down from Cas's shoulders and onto his narrow hips. He pulls him closer, finding the warmth of the man's body all too inviting. Dean swivel's his head and nestles his cheek into Castiel's hair. He breathes in deep; the familiar, comforting smell rushes through him, causing him to shudder. Cas times himself perfectly, dancing a few frantic licks along the outside rim of Dean's ear.

     Dean loses it. With blown pupils and wrecked breath, he steps back, yanking Castiel with him. The two tumble, grappling each other all the way to the couch. Dean falls back first, attempting to pull his friend down over his body— suddenly eager to taste the salt on Castiel's skin; but the blue eyed man remains upright, staring down at him, still looking hungry and manic, but his mouth twitching with unspoken words.

     "Dean?" his breath is heavy and his tongue almost seems numb by the sound of Dean's name rolling off of it. "Is this what you want? I don't know if I can handle you making me leave because of this."

     The look on Castiel's face changes with his words; it's the same look he had all those years ago in that bar: terrified-lost, in desperate need of someone's kindness. It struck Dean back then but it melts him now.

     Dean leans up again, grabbing at Cas's shirt, pulling him down until he is partially kneeling between Dean's legs. The man steadies himself, a palm resting on Dean's shoulder, and the other on his thigh. Cas turns his head away almost as if he wants to pull back, the massive whites of his eyes, pulsing from his lids. Dean breathes in heavy, and the oceans shifts their gaze again, sliding back to Dean's face- but Cas's head is still turned away, making every bit of blue splash into the corners of his eyes. Dean thinks he may just drown in the look.

     He isn't sure of what he wants to say, but he knows he wants Cas to keep looking at him like this. He knows he wants to feel Cas devour him again. He has no fucking clue why, or what will happen after that but he knows that the last thing he wants in this world is for Castiel to leave.

     Dean arches the last few inches and kisses the man in front of him— gently biting his lip and dusting his tongue along the quivering seam of his mouth, pulling away after another second to say the only thing that comes to mind.

     "Cas ... stay."

 

 


	19. Beyond the Door

     Dust catches in the burnt, sunset-rays slipping in through the blinds. A peaceful quiet fills the room; even the hum of car engines and the occasional bustling neighbor is muted by the walls surrounding them. They are cocooned inside—a little nook where they can do what they please, no longer abiding by any rules of the world beyond the door.

     Cas crouches, motionless, between the coffee table and the soft, brown couch; Dean, curved just below him, looking up- eyes, tanning in the rays.

     Fabric falls helplessly on top of Dean's skin, caressing the slightly concave-curve of his stomach; and stretching across his broad, mounding chest. He watches as Dean leans back against the couch, giving a light tug on Cas's shirt, just before dropping his hands to his sides. Dean's lips part slightly, the way they always do when he is eager for something—eager for food, eager for a drink; now, eager for Castiel. His short, shadowed, blonde hair is slightly askew, making the man look gruff when accompanied by his five o'clock shadow. He could stare at him like this, until the world ends. He always loves watching the beautiful things.

     But watching from afar won't be enough, not now. Castiel leans in, wanting to look closer, wanting to watch every muscle in Dean's body twitch and jump with anticipation. He has never felt power like this; he has never felt capable of controlling someone but right now, in this moment, he feels like he can do anything to Dean—he would be allowed to. The sensation exhilarates him, flooring his mind into places he has rarely strayed. He is sure Dean frequents these filthy areas of the brain often; but Cas, he usually prefers cleanliness and predictability. Not now, not here.

     "Cas?" Dean whimpers, making the tendons in his jaw visibly snap, highlighting every edge of his face. Dean has beautiful edges. "Are you going to stay?

     Cas grins, he feels the smile burst from within him like he has never known. He didn't realize it was possible to grin with your entire body but he knows he is doing it now; and Dean must also be aware of it. The man's freckled face glows; sending beautiful etches across his skin. Cas sees the outline of every laugh, every jaw splitting grin—every moment of pure happiness Dean has had, written against his eyes, his mouth . . . and he is sharing the story with him.

     "Yes." Is all Cas can think to say before falling over his friend, his hands gripping the cushion on either side of Dean's head; his back arching up as he moves his legs across the other's body, straddling Dean's thigh.

     "Thank god!" Dean growls, pulling Cas down by the hips until their chests pound together.

     Cas winces, "I don't think God would much approve of this." unable to keep old habits at bay.

     Dean laughs, sliding his hand up Cas's spine, eventually coming to rest along the side of his neck.

     "I thought you had given up on religion and were all approving of this ... gay shit." Dean whispers, flinching a little at his own words.

     "I have, and I am." Cas retorts, his voice edging on defensive. He props his head up slightly, enjoying feeling the pull of Dean's hand, keeping him in place. "I just mean, the fact that we are being so intimate without any vows between us. . . God wouldn't be welcoming your thanks for this."

     Dean's body rocks beneath him. Laughter sputters through his full, drying lips. Cas is a little confused by the apparent humor of what he has said, but loves the new sensation of _feeling_ Dean laugh.

     "Cas, I'm sure God isn't too happy with me, anyway, and he hasn't been in a long time; one of the downfalls of associating with _this_ Winchester."

     "If that is true, then God is an ass-butt." Cas spits out, suddenly very offended that anyone might not be happy with Dean.

     Another quake strikes, nearly bucking Cas from his mount. He watches as Dean's eyes close and an open smile overtakes his face. Dean pulls a loose fist up, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as the rest of his body rolls out uninhibited laughter. Cas could watch this forever.

     The fits calm and Cas sighs, tossing a meager smile down at Dean, "Is that not a proper name to call someone?"

     Dean's mouth stretches up another inch, likening him very closely to a Pez dispenser. "Not really man, but I think it's my new favorite."

     Cas smiles again, happy to have given Dean something to favor. He drops his head the rest of the way, letting his mouth do the only thing it is apparently good at: kissing Dean. He feels Dean's bottom lip slide perfectly between his. Cas's tongue peeks out, exploring every curve, before pushing further, opening Dean up. He feels his body jolt as the man beneath him meets him in the middle. A soft sweetness leaps off of Dean's taste buds, crossing over to his own.

     Dean slides his body sideways, letting himself fall and stretch out along the length of the couch. Cas sinks with him, moving his legs so he could stay straddled over Dean. They arch and sway together, mouths never separating—arms and hands, skating across fabric in a desperate search of skin.

     Dean's chest staggers against the added weight of Castiel, stretched out on top of him. His hips instinctively motion small circles against Cas's thigh. Sweat collects on their plains, causing their hands to slip as they vie for more to touch. Castiel pulls away for a moment, finally noticing Dean's gentle grind against his leg. His eyes round, pupils exploding as he slides his knee closer, feeling Dean, throbbing beneath him. Dean looks down at himself, a cherry hue crawling up his neck.

     Cas slinks his fingers from Dean's chest, where they were just molesting every ridge and rib underneath his shirt. He keeps his eyes locked on the beautiful, green eyed man, analyzing each flinch and blink, for a sign that says, where he is about to go is okay.

     The engraved metal button of Dean's jeans is pulled tight against the loop, trying to keep the tented fabric closed. Cas releases it from its hold with a quick flick of his thumb and forefinger. Dean lets out a small gasp, the freeing sensation, seemingly enough to make his muscles jump. Cas drinks in the last flecks of green in Dean's eyes just before they fully black out in the dilation.

     Heat rises up from Dean's freshly exposed skin, causing Cas's palms to sweat as he slides his hand just beneath the waistband, feeling the man's eagerness with his decent. Cas slips his body beside Dean, cramming him against the back cushions of the couch. He finds himself wishing he had another set of eyes to stare at the angled lines crawling from beneath Dean's shirt, disappearing under the hem of his boxers. He wants to remove every piece of fabric that keeps Dean's freckled skin hidden from the world.

     Castiel inches his hand further- the tips of his fingers gliding down until his knuckles disappear beneath cotton. A sticky wetness meets his fingertips, and the familiar scent of arousal fills Cas's nose. His own jeans tighten, and he finds himself, slowly sliding his hips, up and down Dean's side. With one last push, Cas's hand edges through soft hair and wrap around the rigid, pulsing shaft of Dean's cock.

     Dean's neck arches against the arm of the couch; eyes bursting wide, staring at the ceiling as a deep, grunting moan leaps from his throat. Cas watches as the man's adams apple bounces with each desperate gulp of air. Castiel pulls his torso up, over Dean's chest, until his head is hanging over his friend's face. He slides his grasped hand upward, until Dean's purpling tip is caught in the crook of his thumb. Dean's eyes dart back and forth—from Cas to the ceiling and then back to Cas; occasionally falling low, trying to peek at just what would come next.

     With a slow, strong swipe of his thumb, Cas collects every drop that he squeezed out of Dean; hitting each nerve ending along the way, causing Dean to thrash momentarily against his hand. Cas feels an evil grin crawl over his face, as Dean's wanton expressions change from pleasure, to fear, to almost-pain.

     He moves his hand back down Dean's length, loving the feeling of his own finger tips, straining to touch each other around the girth. He glides faster, each time, paying special attention to the now-throbbing head of Dean's bulge. Cas hovers his lips close to the other, panting mouth, soaking up each whimper and inhale that he was making the man take. He finally drops, his lips choking out the cut off moans- filling Dean's mouth with the taste of his tongue. Cas pumps quicker still, holding his chest tightly to Dean's, calming the squirming body beneath him. Dean's jaw goes slack, and he vibrates against Cas's hand. Cas rips his lips away, taking one quick moment to revel in Dean's shocked expression, before breaking down, letting his head fall beside Dean's; the stick of his tongue sliding across the edge of the man's ear.

     Dean grabs hard onto Castiel's wrist, nearly pulling him from his swelling cock. Dean's other hand clutches onto his friend's neck as he devours his earlobe. They sweat against each other, Dean writhing and rocking his hips with every swipe and strike of the man's grip.

     Cas lets out a heavy raspy breath into Dean's ear; the closeness, the eagerness in the man's eyes, making him feel as if he is tipping over the edge as well. Goosebumps invade Dean's skin as he arches, hard. Castiel drinks in the sight as a smooth warmth spills out over his fingers in gentle gusts. After a couple more light strokes, he stills, waiting for Dean to relax his spine. He chases one last lick along the man's neck, making him tense slightly once more. He loosens his hold, sliding his circled fingers up, giving Dean's tip a final caress. Dean gasps, rounding out the sound with a heaving laugh.

     "Jesus Christ, Cas!" Dean grunts, chest still jolting with each breath.

     Cas relaxes his neck, letting his head rest on the freckled, firm shoulder beneath him, "I don't think _he_ would approve of this either, Dean."

 

 


	20. Azure

     The request for Cas to stay was taken quite literally. Dean isn't surprised, nor does he mind; which _is_ actually a little surprising. After such "encounters", he usually likes to sleep for a good, long while, and then wake up—alone. Lisa was an exception ... her breakfasts were amazing.

     He finally pulls himself upright from the couch, listening as Cas washes his hands in the kitchen. Dean swears, he can hear the man smiling. Small, dancing hums and chuckles fill the air; bouncing from one streaming ray of sun to the other. The living room is darkening; the orange streaks are graying at the edges and he wonders just how long he and Cas had been doing _things_.

     The thought is interrupted by a plate being pushed in front of his face; a large piece of surgically-cut pie, resting in the center. He almost feels he could cry. Dean looks up at the angel of a man, who is grinning ear to ear; his dark hair is a bigger mess than usual, and the blue in his eyes seems slightly dulled with fatigue. Dean grabs the plate, his stomach stabbing suddenly as his brain reports the message that pie is on its way down.

     The first bite is explosive. He isn't sure if he has ever tasted anything better. The crust flakes across his tongue; little sugar bombs riding the fragments, just waiting to attack each taste bud with reckless abandon. The cherries pop and gush out a syrupy-sweet, honey filled concoction that is nothing less than euphoric. Dean moans as a little dribble of drool escapes his mouth. Castiel laughs as Dean's eyes roll to the top of his skull, searching for the words to express just how perfect this moment is.

     And it is perfect. Not just the orgasmic-pie, but what has led up to it and who is sitting next to him. Dean swallows another bite, wondering if he is fully comprehending what had just occurred. He feels like he should be panicking, he should be concerned that not only did he just get off by a _guy_ , but that guy was Castiel. He had never once thought of Cas in that way, why would he? There always seemed to be a woman around for him; some perky breasts and a tight, round ass to hold his attention. Who had the time to think about other possibilities when a waitress is always slipping her number into your back pocket?

     No, he has never thought of Cas that way and even now, in this perfect, completely calming moment, he is not sure if he could do what Cas just did. It is one thing to be "taken care of" by someone; surprisingly, men and women's hands feel the same when fondling you into temporary blindness. But, Dean isn't sure if he could suddenly make the switch from the glistening, pink holes he is used to, to throbbing manhoods. Although, the firmness of Cas's chest did feel amazing, beating against his own. The slow, hard grind of the man's hips on his side, electrified him in ways that he didn't know were possible. In spite of that, Dean isn't sure if he could make this gigantic change to pleasing men—but he may just be able to start pleasing Castiel.

     Cas sits next to Dean, staring, as he often does—unblinking, making him wonder at times, if the man even has eyelids. Although, there has to be something holding up those long, soft lashes. Dean finds himself smiling, mouth full of cherry-sweetness, eyes full of a blue eyed, shaggy haired man, with a razor sharp jaw that could kill things. He smiles and eats and in all-too short a time, his plate is empty.

     "Would you like another slice?" Cas asks, his voice low and rumbling, making Dean vibrate up from his toes.

     Dean nods, still swallowing his last bite, his cheeks twitching with pleasure. Cas gets up, taking Dean's plate with him, making his way back to the kitchen. Dean watches, noticing somehow for the first time, the completeness of Castiel. He is not just his goofy, particular, socially awkward friend of seven, long years. Nor is he just the genius, book worm, editor that the rest of the world sees; and he is definitely not just an amazing kisser—he is all that and so much more. He is a pie maker and he is forceful and fierce at times. He is small and large all at once. Cas can seem so weak and meager—making Dean want to wrap him up and protect him from everything scary and worrisome in the world. Much like he used to do with Sammy; before Sammy turned into a moose of a man, that is.

     Yeah, Cas could seem weak, but the way he pulled Dean into him-the way his usually shaky hands held him down and held him tight; the way he could wrench himself away, even when it was obvious that all he wanted in this world was to be close to something—made Dean think he was the strongest guy he has ever met. He didn't think of himself as a weakling but in Cas's hands, he certainly turned into one—moaning like a love sick, cheerleader under the bleachers. He was kind of embarrassed by how he must have sounded.

     Another crimson slice appears in front of him, suspended by a lightly tanned arm, each muscle outlined by a subtle vein or turn of bone. Cas has rolled up the sleeves of his white, button up shirt, revealing the sinewy limbs beneath. Dean takes the pie but drinks in his friend. He didn't see a man standing there, blue orbs and tousled hair, he saw everything he and the guy have been through to get here—the memories seem to grace Cas's skin like freckles. Dean finds, he wants to see more, he wants to undress Castiel and appreciate what hides beneath those buttons and perfectly fitting jeans. He finds, he isn't horribly terrified _that_ he wants that.

     Cas sits down beside Dean once more, this time, turning his attention to his own slice of pie. Dean stares in a very Cas-like fashion as his friend eats, seemingly, just as hungry as he was. A little dribble of cherry syrup misses the man's mouth, falling slowly from his bottom lip. Dean leans in, knees brushing knees, and kisses the runaway drop just before it plummets to the carpet. Cas smiles, shaking his head and looking down; his cheeks turning just as red as the smears on his plate. Dean feels like he could squeal—a very embarrassing and unusual sensation; but the sight of Cas now, so fragile, contradicting the last hour so harshly, makes Dean squirm in his seat.

     "Hey, Cas?" Dean asks, suddenly very nervous about what Cas is thinking.

     "Hmm?" Cas mumbles, mouth full of pie, focus still on the floor.

     "Can you stay longer? Like ... the night?" his hands shudder, causing the fork to tremble against his plate.

     Castiel swallows thickly, peering up to Dean-his azure eyes glowing again with that old brightness that always lights up his face.

     "I wasn't planning on leaving, Dean."

 

 


	21. Naive

    Night comes quickly, but the mens' little safe haven is dimly lit by the flashing whites and greys of the television. The screen, however, is only a temporary distraction from one another, and the explorations they find, marked on each other's lips. When they aren't intertwined, they are talking and reminiscing on the funny moments that bounce around their heads, connected only by their connection. The ease of their words is astounding since the immaturity of their actions is so apparent. After the spontaneous perfection of their initial romp, every new touch seems bumbling and over thought—the only salvation being that they both know how awkward it feels and can laugh about it until their sides hurt.

    "I feel I need to take a shower." Cas says after he finishes his final slice of pizza—a last minute decision on his part, not having the energy to cook anything but wanting something more substantial than cherry pie.

    "Sure thing, I'll grab you a towel." Dean says before pulling himself up from his chair. He rubs his rounded belly in soft circles as he makes his way towards his room.

    Cas watches over his shoulder as Dean disappears down the hall; the same hall that only yesterday, was the cause of so much frustration and anguish. Now, a happy man fills the space. One who is seemingly content without a drink and without the warmth of a woman beside him. The muscles in Cas's cheeks hurt as his grin returns for the countless time in the past few hours. Dean soon returns to view, towel in hand.

    "Here you go. The hot water knob is touchy so adjust everything _before_ you get in." Dean warns.

    Cas nods, taking the towel, starting his way past Dean and down the hall towards his bedroom. But before Cas can leave Dean's reach, a warm, quick kiss lands on his cheek. Cas turns into the feeling, setting his eyes on the sculpted man next to him. Dean reaches down, intertwining his fingers with Castiel's, his gaze, watching them clasp together. Cas leans forward and touches his forehead to Dean's, and for a moment, they rest there—drenched in the closeness of one another.

    With a gentle pull, Cas separates himself causing a little pouty, huff to escape Dean's lips. Cas walks down the hall and into Dean's room. He shuts the door behind him, looking about the space before sending a fleeting glance to Dean's bed- wondering just how it will feel to sleep next to someone. Just how good it will be to actually _sleep_! He contemplates the various ways he could position himself: he could wrap his arms around Dean's waist, and nuzzle the soft, fuzzy hair on the back of his neck. Or he could face the other way, hoping Dean would cloak his heavy arms around him, in an attempt to keep Cas from ever leaving. He wonders if Dean would feel aroused by such an arrangement because the thought alone is making Cas grow and ache a little—still slightly built up from his earlier tryst.

    He concedes that, however they sleep, it will probably be better than any scenario he could invent. The proceedings of the afternoon are proof of that. Although, there is always the possibility that Dean won't want to share a bed. The thought makes him a little queasy. He hopes, that how Dean has been acting for the last few hours is enough proof that he was to explore this just as much as Castiel does. He shuffles into the bathroom, turning on the fan and twisting the finicky knobs of the shower. After a few moments of trial and error, Cas disrobes and slides his body beneath the heavy streams shooting from the wall. The warmth feels incredible. He could nearly fall to the floor and sleep right here. Each second beneath the steamy water eases one ache after another. Cas collects the bar of soap, lathering it between his hands before replacing it and scrubbing his face—noticing for the first time all day, how sore his bruised jaw is. His marathons of kissing and biting made even the slightest brush against the bone, burn.

    The feeling shoots unease deep into his gut. It has been less than a week since Dean gave him this bruise. It has been less than a week since Dean was on the brink of self-destruction. It feels like a lifetime ago now, but so little space is really between _this_ Dean and the Dean who was ready to drink himself into oblivion. Cas is merely the start of a scab that needs to cover a hundred mile long wound. This slice of perfection won't last forever and he cannot pretend that it will just because of some selfish need. He wants something like this to actually be permanent in the future—but it will take work. Cas isn't naive, he knows that Dean feels safe here, in this moment, but he will have to go outside again, eventually. What then? What will become of this?

    He finishes washing himself, concern causing new aches to replace the ones beaten away by the water. He twists the knobs back, shuttering as a rush of cold air swoops in to attack his dripping skin. Cas opens the shower door and grasps for the towel that Dean provided, hoping the stop the onslaught of chills before they reach his ears. He dries himself thoroughly enough and steps out of the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist, tucking the loose corner beneath the taught portion that grips to his hips. He digs through Dean's drawers, hoping the man is enough of a planner to have a new toothbrush stowed away somewhere. He eventually finds one tucked deep in the far back of the bottom cabinet.

    Castiel emerges from the steamy room, clean and refreshed, but still weighed down by his mid-shower realization. He can't help but wonder when this will end; when this will all come to a screeching halt. Will it be when he leaves to finally return to work? Will Dean be tired of him and kick him out by sunrise? What if Sam stops by? _Sam_! Oh, what on earth will Sam think of all this? That is, if Dean ever tells him- that seems unlikely. Cas hates secrets and he has no idea what he would do if Dean asked him to keep their time together, quiet. The thoughts all collide together in his head, one tumbling over the other, cracking like glass in his mind.

    The riot consumes him, keeping him from noticing Dean, sitting on the side of the bed—watching as Castiel's half naked body, quivers in deep thought.

 

 


	22. Get It Together

     He doesn't know what he's doing. He has no fucking clue. Here he is, staring at his best friend, who is half naked, water droplets still hugging his skin and Dean can't even form a word. He knows what his intentions were. When Cas left the room to take a shower, Dean couldn't help but wonder how he was handling all of this. Given, Cas was the clear dominant one when they were on the couch, but as far as Dean knew, and by the little things Cas has said, he was just as new to this experience as Dean. What was going through that tousled head? How was he feeling about all this craziness; and how the hell did he know just how to get Dean off like that? Did he want to get off too? Dean didn't even think to ask—ha! How would he even ask that question? What the fuck would he even do if he did and Cas said _yes_?

     Even though he had no clue, he still felt like a big bag of dicks for not even trying; so here he is, sitting on the edge of his bed. Hoping Cas will somehow, telepathically send his natural gift for hand-jobs to him. The only one Dean has every given was to himself—so he is praying to god that that is enough to get him through what he is thinking of doing.

     Cas looks up at him, only just noticing Dean is there judging by the startled look in his eyes. Those _eyes_ though! The steam makes the sapphire rims radiate from beneath Cas's brow. Dean feels a heat burn within him, lifting him up from the bed and propelling him towards Castiel.

     He reaches out his hands, sliding them around his friend's waist, smearing the warm drops that had collected on the small of his back. Cas's pale skin is soft, and the bones and muscles beneath, offer little give to Dean's embrace. He feels as if he is clasping a velvet pillow filled with stones. The blue eyed man opens his mouth, but no words come out. Dean smiles, filling the void with his tongue, wanting desperately for Cas to relax—he doesn't need to worry about Dean for once. Cas deserves that attention now.

     Dean releases his grip and backs away slowly, reaching out to pull Castiel with him. Cas complies, letting Dean take the lead, hesitation, however, still wrecking his face. Dean tugs him close once more, whipping him around until they have switched places. He pushes him gently down on the bed—Cas falls softly, bouncing on the mattress and finally allowing an ease to come over his eyes. Dean bends down at the waist, putting one hand, flat on Cas's bare, smooth chest and pushing him back until his alabaster skin in married comfortably to Dean's sheets. Dean crawls onto the bed and over Castiel. He leans his head down and gives him gentle kisses all along his collar bone, making Cas's chest heave and rattle against his lips.

     The response fills him with excitement; maybe he _can_ be good at this. After all, he is awesome at this kind of thing with women. They always seem quite pleased with his choices in bed; in fact, he can't remember a single one who didn't ask him to call her afterwards. That's something right? He has to have a natural talent for this; so what if it's a guy rather than a chick? He is Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester is an awesome lover!

     The thought process is empowering, until Dean finds himself gliding licks around Cas's belly button—his chin grazing the edge of the towel resting on his friend's hips. How did he get down _here_ so quickly? He feels his eyes grow wide, suddenly hoping that Cas is far off in some blissful place and not giving Dean another one of his trademarked stares. A quick glance up dashes his dreams; Cas is gazing at him like a deer in headlights, a redundant concern seeping from his pores.

     "Get it together, man ..." Dean mumbles to himself—he feels Cas pull up beneath him.

     "Dean, you don't have to . . ." Cas begins but Dean is already shooting up across the man's body to shut him up with a kiss; determined not to make this about himself.

     Cas relaxes into the mattress again, allowing Dean to prop himself up on his elbow, sliding his free hand down to the folds of the towel, now loosening around Castiel's waist. Dean continues dashing and stabbing Cas's mouth with his tongue, eyes closed, thinking that if he cannot see what he is doing, it will give him less to think about. He couldn't be more wrong.

     He takes a deep breath through his nose and slides his fingers into the gap between the towel and the man's pelvis, instantly grazing the round, moist tip of Cas's cock. Cas rocks his hips and Dean freezes. Every inch of him is anxious and he's suddenly craving a cool glass of whiskey for the first time in days. _Fucking, get it together!_ Dean thinks to himself, urging his fingers to wrap around Castiel.

     He feels the veins throb inside Cas's dick; they seem to be trying to resist his grip, thumping strong enough to loosen it with each, little pulse. Dean focuses, motioning his hand up, squeezing hard, trying to force the veins into submission. Cas lets out an ugly grunt.

     "Uh, Dean...?" Cas hums, obviously masking his discomfort with whisps of politeness.

     "Sorry ... sorry." Dean mumbles from around Cas's lips, hoping that he can find a rhythm between his actions so that Cas doesn't have to warn him again.

     He shifts away from his friend's mouth, moving to his ear, hoping it will do what it did for him. He bites and licks the curves just above the lobe and Cas jumps slightly, like he was just shocked by static. Dean feels his frustration mount on top of itself- he is floundering and he knows it. _He_ is fucking failing at this and Cas knows it too.

     Dean moves his hand back down the length of Cas's softening shaft, no longer feeling veins or heat rising from his friend's body. He makes a few more eager swipes before he feels the weight of Cas's hand come and cover his own.

     "It's alright Dean. I think—I think I am just too tired for this right now." Cas offers, pity and disappointment seem to overtake his voice.

     Dean drops his head onto Cas's shoulder as he slides his hand out from under the damp towel. He wants to apologize but somehow, he knows that will make it worse—worse for him that is. Even when he was plastered drunk, he could please a woman, why the hell is it so different now?

     "I am going to put on some clothes." Cas says, peeling himself off the bed after laying a light hand on Dean's wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze.

     "Do you mind if I borrow a shirt and some pants from you?" The question falls heavy out of Cas's mouth.

     "Sure." Dean says, his eyes closed, spitting silent curses at the threaded sheets.

 

 


	23. Thinking About It

      The closet door opens and Cas walks inside, disappearing from his view. Dean rolls to his back, sprawling out across his bed, staring at the ceiling. The popcorn covering morphs and bends awkwardly, mocking his inability to do anything right. Why the hell is he such a fuck up? He wants to blame this on his inexperience and the fact that up until Monday, he would have never thought he would be in this situation—cursing the world for not being able to please a man. He wants to blame all that but really; he just is a big-ass wimp. He was scared and he let Cas down—again.

      Castiel walks back into view, looking shrunken in Dean's baggy clothes. They are close to the same height but Dean is bulkier than the blue eyed man, so his normally fitted apparel hangs like drapes on the slender figure in front him.

      "Are you going to be able to sleep in those?" Dean asks, temporarily distracted by his friend in the circus tent.

      "I think so." Cas replies, looking down at himself.

      "What do you normally sleep in?" Dean probes; genuinely curious.

      Cas blushes, "Just my briefs usually. If it is a cold night, I will wear pants like these ... smaller ones of course."

      Dean looks quickly down at Cas's feet, wanting to avoid the giant blue orbs that were certainly waiting on his reaction. He doesn't know how to respond; he wants Cas to be comfortable but at the same time, the thought of sleeping alongside and nearly naked man is pretty terrifying—especially after what he had just been through. But then again, so what if he's uncomfortable? Cas is probably ten times worse—considering the blue balls the man most likely has.

      "Well, if you uh, get too hot ... just get comfortable, man." Dean says, trying his best to sound up beat and care free. The words slop off his tongue instead.

      Cas nods, and begins stripping off his shirt. The air hitches in Dean's throat. He wasn't expecting this. He thought the guy would be more hesitant, but instead, he seems almost relieved that Dean offered the freedom from the potato sack-clothes he is being strangled in. The act is actually kind of comforting, knowing that Cas is so literal, he doesn't get held up with pleasantries and social graces. He does what he feels and he feels the need to be shirtless. The sight is certainly okay with Dean, which is still a little startling to him.

      The lean, smooth man stands at the corner of Dean's bed, adjusting the ties on the sweats he is wearing, desperately trying to yank them tighter so they don't fall off his narrow waist. Dean just stares, trying to enjoy the fact, that _he is_ enjoying the sneak peek at the occasional moles that spot his friend's body. Everything about him was so un-feminine but at the same time, not really "manly" either. Cas is just _Cas_ and Dean starts to think that is why he is so drawn to him, because he is his best friend above everything else, and he trusts him; and that is the only explanation that matters.

      The thin man finally finds some sort of satisfactory knot and moves closer to the bed. Dean looks up at him, scooting over in the process, trying to show his friend that is is alright if he joins him. Cas smiles softly, no longer looking full of pity on Dean's behalf. He seems genuinely happy that Dean is here, on this bed, sliding over to let him in.

      The dark haired man crawls onto the mattress, giving a quick twist of his body until he is sitting on his haunches, upright slightly and looking up at Dean, almost like he is waiting for something. Dean realizes that he is still fully clothed and perhaps Cas really does want to go to bed. He pushes himself off the edge and stands up, his back turned to Castiel, not able to be as bold as his counterpart. He feels Cas's eyes burning a hole into his spine. He doesn't know which would be worse, undressing silently in front of the guy or facing him and talking about things while he undresses. He chooses some sound over the awkward stabbing of quiet.

      "Cas?"

      "Yes, Dean?"

      Dean suddenly feels the need to clear all the air, knowing that the bed will eat him alive if he doesn't. "I am—I am sorry about, umm ... you know? I just don't really know what I am doing."

      Cas is silent for a moment, and Dean feels as if he's going to explode into a thousand pieces with each nanosecond without words.

      "It's okay. I don't really know what I am doing either. I think it is obvious that we are both treading on some untouched ground here."

      Dean smiles to himself as he pulls his rumpled shirt from his arms, catching whiffs of pie and _Castiel_ on the fabric. "Well, you certainly are more natural with it than I am."

      The man propels glares at the bedroom door in front of him, "I don't think I am natural with anything, Dean. I always sort of bumble through things until they finally make sense. I just think I have been bumbling with this idea longer than you h—" Cas bites his words and Dean stops, mid-unzip to look at his friend.

      Cas is turning twelve shades of pink and Dean thinks he may just choke on his own tongue the way his mouth is gaping, seemingly without any air passing through.

      "I—I just mean, that I have been thinking about this—" Cas shakes his head and looks towards the opposite side of the room, away from Dean. "I haven't been thinking about this for _long_ , but ever since ... ever since, that kiss in the hall. I, I thought that there might be," Cas clears his throat and tosses one sideways glance back at Dean, "I thought there might be more between us."

      Dean smiles and finishes pulling off his jeans, leaving him in just his boxers; not really caring anymore about the exposure. He leans down and crawls onto the bed, sitting himself close to Castiel, wrapping his arm around the man's shoulders, and pulling him in until Cas's neck goes slack and his head falls into the curve at the base of Dean's.

      "I am glad you _bumbled_ yourself into this, man," Dean whispers, his lips, tickling against Cas's hair, "I knew I was too much of a puss to even think about that kiss. If you weren't _you_ , we wouldn't be here."

      Cas sinks into Dean's side, sending chills and goose bumps all over his body. Dean reaches across himself with his free hand and grips tightly onto Cas's forearm. Cas lifts his head back a little until he is turning and peering up at him, giving Dean the same look he gave him on the couch—that deep, unmoving stare out of the top corners of his eyes; the whites hazing around the blues, like a scalding flame. Dean's heart seems to ignite, caught in the rays of cobalt and ivory. With a little push, Cas is at his lips, pressing into them softly; making Dean lift his hand from Cas's arm and move to the man's neck so he could pull him in as far as he could go. He may not be able to please Cas in other ways, but he is so damn happy that he can at least make him feel appreciated.

 

 


	24. Skim

     Better than any heavy drink, better than any sleeping pill—the smell of Cas was better than anything at knocking Dean out instantly. Dean was grateful too, because if he didn't sleep and dream and feel the warmth of something clasped tightly to his chest, he may have just snuck out to grab a bottle. Even now, he could take a sip; something to ease the ache of knowing he was the dead weight here. He's glad that Cas didn't give him too hard of a time about it last night, not that Dean would have expected him to; but the guy would have had every right. No, Cas was seemingly content, but Dean couldn't help but dwell once more on the fact that he may never be able to open himself up to his friend the way Castiel opened up to him.

     When they finally relaxed into bed, the man didn't even seem to hesitate—he just nuzzled up next to Dean, his head on Dean's shoulder and hand on his chest, as if that is what they always do and always will do. He made everything seem natural: just another day and Dean was envious of the simplicity. After his epic failure, he couldn't help but think—over think everything, even something as simple as sleeping. The natural scent from Cas's hair, however, eased his weary mind. The soothing tendrils danced up to him, a constant, sensual lullaby for his nose; he didn't have much time to think about anything at all.

     Dean woke up to a harsh spear of sun jabbing directly into his eyes. He squints at the window, noticing that his blinds are slightly askew, causing gaps and slits of the outside to shine through. He slips himself from the sheets and the heavy limbs that were draped across him, grumbling across the room until he can reach out and straighten the mess. A dimness falls through the air and Dean turns back around, only to see the silhouette of Cas, spread out, his back against the bed and something tenting the sheets tight at his waist. Dean looks away, an old habit from his locker-room days and sharing a room with Sammy. He feels as if he would be scolded from above for even noticing such a thing. His next instinct is to throw a pillow at the man and tell him to put that thing away. Although, Cas probably wouldn't find the humor in that, now or later. Not like Sam did—but brothers should.

     After the momentary heart attack, Dean peeks back at the bed from the corner of his eye. Cas is sound asleep, the occasional rattle of his breath and the raised sheets, being the only signs of life in the man. Dean slides closer, letting Cas's features focus through the dark. His long eyelashes dust his cheeks and his lips are parted slightly—outlined by the shaded stubble poking through his skin. He looks different this way, good, but different. Dean wonders if he has ever seen Castiel sleep before. In many ways, it seems like his friend never slept, he just was constantly going and Dean only caught him between his own periods of rest.

     His eyes skim down the length of the man's body and stop on the rounded point, draped in bedding. He could _do_ something about this. He could help Cas out; after all, he knows how good it can feel in the morning. It seems easier anyway, easier to release. When your muscles are relaxed and your mind is still warming up, there isn't much to stop all that blood from rushing from your head—pressure building below, without any real containment. He _could_ do something, and he thinks he should. Cas is probably pretty eager after yesterday.

     Dean slips softly back into bed, careful not to dip the mattress too much. He can't risk the guy waking up and hindering his plans. He inches closer and closer until the ozone of heat surrounding Cas is pulling Dean in. He floats his fingers under the cotton, gliding his knuckles on the underside of the sheets until he is just above Cas's hip. He hopes that he didn't tie the sweat pants too tight or that these were one of the pairs with a button in the front, for easy access. Dean traces a finger along the front seam, feeling the familiar, hard plastic of a button, just under Cas's rigid form. Dean pinches the circle, lifting it slightly so the sweats move away from Cas's body. He fidgets in subtle movements until the button finally releases its grip from the loop. Cas's cock seems to explode out through the slit, causing Dean to realize, Cas must be going commando under there.

     Dean can't see himself grab onto the Castiel's base, but the image seems vivid in his head—his hand wrapping around an unfamiliar cock, and he begins to panic again. Sweat builds in his crevices and heavy breaths siphon out of his nose. _Jesus!_ He screams inside his head, biting his tongue so the word doesn't bounce out of his mouth. The pressure starts to jostle Castiel, making the man stretch and tighten his limbs, pulling his chin into his chest and squirming in place. Dean knows that squirm—it's a happy squirm. He is doing alright, he _is_ alright.

     He glides his hand up Cas's shaft, feeling the rim of his tip catch on the edge of his fingers. Dean urges his thumb to slide across the top, grazing the void on the center of the head, hammering home that this is really happening. Cas's eyes shoot open with the touch. He jerks his head down, staring at the motion occurring beneath the sheets, then, diverting the look to Dean, a cocktail of confusion and concern mixing in his eyes—not the hungry pleasure that Dean was hoping for.

     "Dean?" Cas asks, voice still rumbling with sleep.

     "It's okay Cas ... just relax." Dean chokes out, not sure if he is directing the waking man or himself.

     "Dean, you really don't need to do this." Cas hisses, pulling himself up slightly, his expression aching more with every inch.

     "But, I—I want to." Dean sputters, his tone, pleading for understanding.

     Castiel narrows his eyes and knits his brows, "I don't expect you to do me any favors, Dean."

     "I- I'm not trying to do you a fa- I just thought you might like me to... " Dean takes another stroke, gliding his thumb over Cas's tip once more.

     Cas winces, clutching the edge of the pillow he is propped upon.

     "Dean ..." the words arc down from Cas's lips and Dean feels like a child being scolded for something. Cas is once again, going limp in his hand. The look on the man's face and the feel of him causes Dean to concede, letting go of the spongy shaft and rolling to his back with a huff.

     "Fuck."

     Cas rustles to his side, shifting the weight of his body onto his elbow, his other arm coming down, to touch his fingers together, picking at each of his nails.

     "Dean, you didn't do anything wrong."

     "I sure as hell didn't do anything _right_ , did I?" Dean spits out, sending a piercing glance to Castiel.

     He thought he was doing okay. A second ago, when Cas was asleep, he seemed happy enough. What the hell changed? Dean is frustrated and he finds he is even kind of frustrated with the man next to him. He knows he didn't grab too hard this time and he sure as hell didn't yank the crap out of him—so why did Cas practically tell him to stop? Did he think Dean couldn't do it? Did Cas know how nervous he was, so he didn't even want to let him try? Dean felt pitied and underestimated; two of his least favorite feelings.

     "Dean. I just don't want you to feel pressured." Cas says meagerly, apparently sensing Dean's annoyance.

     Dean discards the sheets and rips himself from Cas's side.

     "I'm going to take a shower." he grumbles, before walking around the bed and into the bathroom.

     Dean locks the door behind him and stands in the cold darkness, wondering if he still has a bottle stashed away in the hamper.

 

 


	25. The Truth

    His house seems cold. The cleanliness is uninviting and it makes everything seem unfamiliar—unlived in. It's like Castiel just walked into a model house and decided to stay there. Then again, his whole life feels that way now, like he just really started living a moment ago, and everything he was doing before has been false. It's just a story he made up in his head to pass the time. Dean opened his eyes _a little_ to reality when they first met in that bar; but he opened them completely when the two were in that hallway. Cas is just supposed to go back to normal now; whatever "normal" may be?

    His rosemary is dying. The tiny plant hasn't been watered in days. Cas apologizes to the sorry, browning thing. It didn't ask for that sort of neglect; everything looks neglected, even himself. When he finally makes his way into his bedroom, the mirror on the wall shows a sorry sight. He is unshaven, hair is a tumbleweed of dark knots; and the bruise on his jaw is starting to yellow in the center, making Cas look diseased and dirty. His boss will think he had caught the plague. Work tomorrow will be hellish.

    The disheveled man slumps across the hall from his bedroom, into his office. He presses buttons and turns on switches, bringing the room to life with lights and the hums and clicks of the computer. In a matter of seconds, the speakers sound out various beeps and pings of all the messages and alerts waiting eagerly for Castiel's ears. The sounds are grating, and he wonders why he has even bothered with this now. He is certainly not in the mood for polite responses and troubleshooting other people's issues.

    A faint jingle floats through the house, and Cas realizes he left his phone on the entryway counter. He pulls himself from his chair and shuffles down the hall, not really eager to talk to whoever might be on the line, because he knows that it will be anyone other than Dean. Cas reaches his phone, just before the final ring—the screen reading out "Sam W. Calling" in large, block letters.

    "Hello, Sam." Cas answers dryly, too drained to attempt a pleasant tone.

    "Hey Cas! What are you up to tonight, bud?" Sam pips, his chipper mood becoming an instant annoyance.

    Cas sighs, louder than intended, "I was going to catch up on some work before tomorrow; why do you ask?" He feels his eyes roll slightly, hoping that Sam is not seeking favors. He really cannot handle another Winchester at the moment—even if Sam is the easy one.

    "Well, me and Dean and a couple of my friends are heading out to dinner and I thought you might like to join us."

    Cas is now regretting his prayers for no favors. He would much rather be running errands or giving rides than finding a valid enough excuse for not joining everyone tonight.

    "Sam, I—I really can't. I am very behind on work." Cas feels a little guilty-it isn't really a lie but it is certainly not the entire truth.

    "Oh c'mon Cas! How long has it been since we all hung out? I mean, since Dean is doing better—thank you for that by the way man, really! I went and saw him the other day; I mean, he's not a hundred percent but you did some magic or something!"

    "I assure you, Sam, there was no magic involved." Cas retorts.

    "You know what I mean, man," Sam says, chuckling through the speaker, "anyway, you have to come. It has been forever since we could all just chill out together and I think we all need it. It would mean a lot to me. Please buddy?"

    Cas could scream. Sam knows him too well; he knows Cas cannot say no to pathetic pleas. He _has_ to say no though, he cannot possibly sit across the table from Dean, trying to act normal—not only with Sam but with strangers around? How could he keep up such a façade? He can't tell Sam _that,_ though. What is he supposed to say? "I'm very sorry Sam, but I had intimate relations with your brother and I thought he felt pressured to reciprocate, so we got into an argument and he eventually asked me to leave; therefore, dinner will be far too uncomfortable to have together. I hope you understand"? That certainly would not go over well.

    "What do you say? Just one quick bite to eat and then you can go back and do all the work you want!"

    Sam's tone seems almost overly eager, and Cas wonders if he is up to something more than casual dinner-invites.

    "Again, it would really, really mean a lot to me, Cas."

    The exhausted man pulls the phone away from his ear, silently cursing the world and god for making him such a pushover for a Winchester.

    "Fine." Cas snorts.

    "Awesome! Thanks man, it's gonna be great! Just like old times! So we're meeting at Bobby's Grill and Bar. You know, the one on Singer Street?"

    "Yes, I'm familiar." Cas croaks.

    "Great, we'll all be there at eight, but we can save you a seat if you come a little later. I know how you are when your head gets wrapped up in work."

    "That is very considerate of you, Sam." Cas offers sarcastically, disapproving of the accommodating tone of Sam's voice.

    "Okay man! Well, we will see you there!"

    "Alright." Cas drones and with a click, Sam is gone.

    The phone slides from Castiel's ear and he nearly drops it onto the shining, hard wood floor. _What on earth is he going to do_? Cas looks down at the phone's face, still glowing in his hand. Twelve forty seven. He has less than eight hours to come up with a plan. He has less than eight hours to practice pretending that his friendship may not be over with Dean. He has to pretend that before Dean told him to get out of his house, Cas _didn't_ say that he was worried that Dean was still too fragile to make any big changes yet; that he _didn't_ want Dean to push himself too far because he may just break down again if things do not go right. He has to act like Dean's jaw _didn't_ clench and his brow _didn't_ crease and he _didn't_ respond with "I am not something to be pitied, Castiel. I am not anyone's project!" Cas has to pretend that he _did not_ solely bring about long awaited happiness for his best friend and then rip it away in less than twenty four hours. He has to pretend that he and Dean are perfectly alright. They are not though, and they might never be. Maybe, if he pretends long enough, it will actually be true.

 

 


	26. Approval

     Hamburgers and barbequed chicken: the smells make his mouth water and Dean looks again at his brother—eyes begging to just let him order an appetizer or _something_. Sam gives Dean a quick glance and then peers back at the front door; only taking a second to realize he is being stared at, giving Dean a double take.

     "What?" Sam asks, eyebrows stretching towards the sky.

     "C'mon man! I'm starving and your friends are twenty minutes late! Can we please just order something?"

     Sam shoots his brother a disapproving look, "No Dean, we are waiting. You won't die. God! Have some patience."

     Dean groans and slumps in his seat. Who the hell is twenty minutes late for dinner? Dean could understand one person, but two? They must be driving together because the chances of getting two inconsiderate people in one dinner, is just too much. God! He is hungry! He didn't eat all day- he was too angry. He was too angry to cook one of the meals Castiel had made him. He was too angry to leave the house. He knew if he did leave, he would end up at a liquor store instead of a drive thru. His thoughts are disrupted by Sam's beaming grin. He follows his brother's gaze to two, tall, lovely ladies standing just inside the front door. Sam nearly falls out of the booth.

     "Hey! Jess! Over here! Hey!" Sam is waving like an idiot.

     "Jesus Christ, Sammy, you want to tone it down a bit?" Dean mumbles, hiding his face with his hand, wanting to crawl away from the flailing giant across from him.

     The women glide over to their booth; a tall, blonde haired, blue eyed beauty and an auburn-headed sex pistol with green eyes cap off the end of the table. The blonde bends down and gives Sam a soft kiss on the cheek, just before sliding in next to him.

     "Dean, this is Jessica—my girlfriend." Sam says, still staring at the blonde girl's profile,

     "And this is our friend, Lexi." He says, finally ripping away his gaze. "We all were in the same lit class for a while."

     Dean smiles and nods at Jessica, and then turns to Lexi, offering her his hand out for a shake, she takes it and drops into his side of the booth, practically falling on his lap.

     "Ladies, this is my brother, Dean."

     Dean eyes Sam, realizing now why he was so eager to get him out tonight. He really didn't feel up to it after everything with Castiel, but he felt even less like explaining that to Sam.

     "So, little Sammy has a girlfriend?" Dean asks, sliding a few inches away from Lexi, who is eyeing him intently. "How much did he pay you to be here tonight, Jess? I know this guy couldn't snag a catch like you without some green."

     "Dean!" Sam growls, kicking his brother underneath the table.

     Jess chuckles, "Sam said you had the personality of a prepubescent, twelve year old."

     Dean shoots a glance to his brother, feeling a sneaky smile twitch across his lips. "I like this one Sam, she's quick. Too quick for _you_ obviously." Dean's shin takes another beating.

     "So Dean," Lexi chimes in, apparently not liking the lack of attention, "Sam says you're in construction. Do you get to wear the hard hat and everything?" The woman's eyes burn lustfully and Dean feel himself start to sink back into his old routine—he knows this song and dance very, very well.

     "Yeah, I got to protect this face, you know—that's my real money maker.

     Lexi melts a little in her seat as Dean throws her his best, smoldering look.

     "Yeah, that face is _way_ too pretty to mess up, with all those sparks flying everywhere—that is, if you do _those_ kinds of "construction things", like welding and stuff."

     "I know how to make things hot, yes ..." Dean comes back quickly, making Lexi giggle a blush; a churning hunger in her eyes.

     "Okay, settle down you two. How about we order?" Sam cuts in while flagging down the waitress

     Dean smirks at his brother and turns his attention back to the woman, who has magically spanned the three inch gap he had created moments earlier. Dean feels a slender hand crawl up his thigh and squeeze just below his crotch, causing him to bulge a little. Lexi's eyes narrow, just before tossing him a quick wink. He feels like his old self for a moment, and he knows that if he wanted to, he could haul this chick out to the Impala right now and test the suspension on his old-ride. He knows that is what he used to do and he feels like he could do it again, but something inside him makes him want to push the woman's hand away.

     Dean looks to his kid brother, hoping he'll offer a distraction from the show taking place at his waist.

     "So, Sammy. When is this whole graduation thing supposed to happen? Or have they kicked you out of that fancy school for being too much of a nerd, even for them?"

     "Dean, I am only a junior. I still have a whole year left to go." Sam says, looking a little red faced that Dean is trying so hard to bust his balls.

     "A whole year? Damn, I thought you were supposed to be smart, Sam?" Dean pushes, hoping Lexi would have enough class not to grope him all the way through a conversation with his brother. So far, she is showing little promise.

     "That's not how it ..." Sam lets out an aggravated huff, "That is not how it works Dean, you see—"

     "Dean, your brother is top in his class you know?" Jess jumps in and Dean automatically thinks Sam has found a keeper. Anyone who tries to defend little Sammy against his onslaught of insults is definitely ballsy— that's enough to gain his approval any day.

     "Top of his class huh? Well! I am glad all those years with his genius, older brother finally paid off!"

     Jess rolls her eyes and shines a sparkling smile at Sam, and the moose seems to melt at the sight of it. Dean finds himself beaming too, proud that Sam is doing so well—and he knows that _that isn't_ thanks to him.

     The waitress comes around and Lexi finally releases her grip. They all order and chat as the drinks are delivered and the appetizers are quickly devoured.

     As they finish eating, Dean soon finds he's been left for the wolves, as Jess and Sam kiss and chatter in their own, little world. Lexi moves closer and closer until her leg is locked over Dean's knee and her arms are twisted through his. With his belly finally full and no other conversation to consume him, Dean surrenders and slips back into his old skin. The guilt that gnaws at his temples is soon masked by Lexi's little, gnawing bites on his neck.

     Muscle memory kicks in and soon, Dean's hand is caressing the woman's knees. She purrs with the touch, nuzzling his shoulder, while letting her own hands travel a little higher than where their journey began. Dean follows suit, crawling his fingers up her thigh, resulting in trilling giggles and reflexive gropes to shoot from her body. It feels good to have someone respond the way he expects them to, the way he's used to. This woman isn't telling him to stop. Her legs aren't closing the more he tries—quite the opposite actually. She practically has ushers waving him in.

     Dean forgets his morning; he tries hard to forget the past twenty four hours and the way Castiel had told him he is too fragile for this sort of thing. He isn't fragile _now_ is he? Lexi sure doesn't think so. The way she's leaning all the way into him, putting all her weight onto his side—she must think he is the strongest guy in the room. That's all Dean wants, is for someone to see him as capable again, and this woman probably finds him more capable than most.

     Lexi peers out of the corner of her eye, across the table to her love-sick friends; who are currently consuming each others' faces. She snaps her gaze back to Dean and nods her head to the side. Dean looks over to his brother, feeling a little grossed out by his display.

     "We shouldn't be the only two not having fun." Lexi hums, glancing again at Jess and Sam

     Dean gulps, he knows what she wants but the thoughts that have been collecting dust in the attic of his mind start to shake themselves off. He tries desperately to shove them back but Cas's blue eyes peer at him through the darkness. His pale skin shines, little moles framing long, lean lines that pull his skin tight across his muscles. There he is, in Dean's bedroom, in nothing but a towel, looking as hungry for Dean as Lexi does now—but his mind is wrong. That is how he _wanted_ Cas to look, but as he stood there in that towel, he wasn't hungry. He was disappointed—disappointed in Dean. Lexi pulls Dean in close, showing him nothing but approval since the moment she sat next to him. It felt good and Dean gave in, letting her climb into his mouth and attempt to lick away the sour taste that has been there since last night.

     "Hey Cas!" Sam's chipper voice breaks the droning hum of the restaurant.

     Dean opens his eyes, ripping Lexi's tongue from his mouth; he peers over her shoulder to see Castiel, standing at the edge of the booth—beryl eyes washing over him.

 

 


	27. Good Time

    "Here, we'll scoot over." Sam says, tugging on Jessica's arm. She gives a wide grin and follows Sam further into the booth.

    "It's quite alright Sam, I actually don't think I can stay." Cas says, eyes never moving from Dean's.

    "Oh, that's crap Cas! You just got here. C'mon, sit down. I want you to meet my girlfriend!"

    Cas sighs, finally breaking the gaze and turning to face Sam and Jess.

    "Castiel, this is my beautiful girlfriend, Jessica. Jess, this is our good friend, Castiel."

    Jess nearly jumps from the booth, "Castiel! Sam has told me so much about you! He says you're an editor? That is what I want to do, or go into publishing. I don't really know yet, honestly."

    Dean gawks as Jess falls all over herself, as if Cas is some sort of superstar that had just stumbled into the place. He watches as Cas shuffles uneasily in his shoes, knowing that this sort of attention—from a woman no less, must be making him very uncomfortable.

    "It is lovely to meet you Jessica. It is pleasing to hear that you want to enter this career path. It is very rewarding."

    Cas sounds like a TV commercial.

    Jess laughs and nods, finally gesturing for Cas to sit down. Dean watches as his friend slides in, now looking everywhere but across the table at him.

    "Oh, and Cas, this is our friend Lexi. We met her at school." Sam offers, gesturing to the woman who is currently draped across Dean.

    Cas shoots another awkward look at Dean before pushing up a meager smile and nod in Lexi's direction.

    "Pleasure" Lexi yips, still tracing hearts along Dean's forearm. "You have a pretty cool name, Castiel. Where'd you get it?"

    Cas gives Lexi the same awkward stare that he'd just given Dean. "Um, I suppose you could say it was a birthday present."

    Dean bursts out a laugh before quickly snapping his mouth shut and looking to the other side of the booth. Lexi stops drawing hearts, apparently unaware of the joke—perhaps Cas is unaware of it too because the awkward glare is now turning into pure fury.

    After a few moments of silence, Lexi finally breaks in with a forced giggle, "Well, I need to use the little girl's room. Jessica, care to join?"

    "Sure, excuse us."

    Cas slides out of the booth once more, allowing Jessica to pass. Soon, the two women disappear behind the far left corner of the kitchen.

    Sam smiles until the women are out of sight and Castiel is back in his seat. Then his face slacks with the weight of everything he has apparently been holding in. "Alright, you two are obviously pissed at each other or still feel awkward or whatever; but I wanted to get you both here so you could see that nothing has to change because of some crap Dean said or did when he was drunk." Sam takes a deep breath before tossing his hand in the air, before letting it fall to the table again, causing all the glasses to shake. "I figured things would be weird with you guys, but _this_ is just stupid!" Sam is shooting fatherly glances from Dean to Castiel and then back to Dean once more. He stops on Cas's face during the third go-around, his eyes bursting wide as he shifts his head back and forth, seemingly consumed by the blue eyed man.

    "Dean ... please tell me you didn't do that to his face?" Sam asks, his eyes squinting now, his brow turning into a sea of wrinkles.

    Dean looks down at the table, he had forgotten about the bruise. He glances up and notices just how yellow and ugly it has become. The hazy light of the restaurant makes it look ten times worse than it did this morning.

    " _Dean_?" Sam says again, now leaning towards his older brother, shoving him a little with his fist.

    "I was really, really drunk, Sam. I didn't know what I was doing." Dean grunts.

    "It's true Sam, he was very unlike himself."

    Dean snaps his head back to Cas. _Was he really defending him_?

    "Oh, don't you protect him! And why the hell didn't you tell me? All you said he did was _shove_ you a little!" Sam fumes.

    "I didn't want you to worry, Sam. We got it straightened out, eventually."

    Dean lets out a snort before he can even think. Sam glares at him once more.

    "Got something to add, Dean?"

    Dean had a lot to add, but nothing that he wanted Sam to hear. Nothing got "straightened out" and the irony of Cas's words was not lost on him.

    "Look, you guys need to stow this high school crap and make up." Sam says, shaking his head at his empty plate. "Dean, you were drunk and stupid ... Cas, I am sure you tried too hard to make things better and probably pissed Dean off in the process—I am assuming that because, buddy, I've been there. But I want the girls to have a good time with my family, so please, just play nice!"

    "If you wish them a good time, Sam, than I should probably leave." Cas says, pulling himself up from the table.

    "No, Cas, that is not what I meant." Sam pleads.

    "My apologies Sam." Cas whimpers, backing away from the booth.

    "Cas. Castiel! Get back here!" Sam spits, a low growl beneath his words

    But the bruised man is already speeding out the door, just in time for Jess and Lexi to see him leave. The girls scurry back to the table—Jess's eyes full of concern.

    "Where is Castiel going?" She asks, throwing worried glances back at the entryway.

    Sam fidgets in his seat, obviously struggling with what he should tell her.

    "He really did have a lot of work to do. That's what you have to look forward to, Jess! No time left for fun or friends!" Sam laughs meagerly.

    Dean feels sorry for his brother. Even though he meddled way too much- inviting Cas here just so he could play Dr. Phil, he knew what his intentions were and he knows Sam really did want Jess to have a good time. Dean feels his frustration with Castiel burst—the guy can be pissed all he wants at him but he shouldn't make Sam suffer for it! That just can't fly! As soon as Dean is done here, he will make that _very_ clear to him.

 

 


	28. Tangents

    Crisp black air is being strangled by the cobra curls of cigarette smoke. Castiel sucks it all in, hoping the lingering poison has the same calming effect as it does for the chimney of a man, leaning against the other wall of the restaurant. Cas's ribs struggle to keep in his spastic lungs; his entire body wretches with the images of Dean, so comfortable resting inside Lexi's mouth. He lets his spine grind against the brick facing of the building as he tries to reason with his own skin, telling it that it has no right to crawl. Dean isn't his; he was never his. Yesterday did not stake some claim on the weary, Winchester. Cas had no reason to be _this_ hurt by what Dean was doing in there, but reason somehow, didn't matter anymore. Castiel feels the most loss by that fact, than anything.

    For a moment, Cas wonders if Dean is drunk—maybe, maybe he is just out of his head again. Of course, Sam would never let that happen, not after how happy he was at the sight of his sober brother. No, there is no substance to blame here. Cas feels sad and shockingly, surprised at the realization. Dean did this on his own, of his own volition. He forgot about Castiel and their night together: their time on that couch, their respite in each others' arms; he forgot in less than twenty four hours. Why on earth would Cas be surprised by that? After all, he has watched Dean perform the same act, night after night, opening the curtain for several showings of the world famous "No Two Girl's the Same" for seven years, now. The only exception, being Lisa, who felt often, he's sure, as Cas does now. No, the fact that Castiel was a man should make no, logical difference. The fact that he was supposedly Dean's best friend, should; but perhaps, Dean is more of a shallow pond than Cas had interpreted.

    Besides, Cas pushed him into this, didn't he? He was so afraid of breaking Dean's porcelain composure, that he enraged him to a point of cracking it anyway. He left Dean's house this morning, with a red faced man with bursting veins, in his wake. He wanted to turn around and re-phrase what he said, to let the true meaning come through; but he continued on home. Not caring in the frustrated moment that once again, Castiel muddied up his words with too many questions and commands. Instead of telling Dean that he wanted to come at all of this slowly, to really see if it will truly work—he told his mending friend that Dean was too weak to handle such a change to his norm. _Weakness_ , the worst offense in Dean's eyes and Cas accused him of it over and over, in different, heavily worded ways. Of course Dean would tire of the attack and seek the familiar comfort of a stranger, whose only care is the curve of muscle beneath Dean's jacket.

    Yet, Dean always knew what Cas meant before, when he would go off on his tangents. Dean is the _only_ one who ever knows what he means; sometimes, before Castiel even figures it out. He should have known what Cas was trying to say. Dean should have understood that none of it was in offense; but as a genuine concern from one friend to another. Why didn't he hear him this time? Why didn't Dean know? Other than the fact that everything between them changed on the surface, what changed just beneath it?

    Cas rocks forward off his heels, pushing himself from the wall. He looks back towards the entryway of the restaurant and considers for a fleeting moment, going back inside and attempting to clear everything up. But poor Sam is already doing damage control for him. Going back in now would only cause him more turmoil. No, Cas will go. He will do at least one honest thing and catch up on all his overdue work that he claimed was overtaking his time. Castiel will get in his car and leave this world of Winchesters, perhaps for good. Part of him hopes for the finality—he hopes that Sam won't attempt to fix things again. It may just be easier to go back to the lonely place he knew so long ago. At least then, he never had to worry about bringing anger into verdant eyes.

 

 


	29. Justifications

     He buries himself up to his nostrils in unedited articles and emails; spanning subjects from global warming to why the break-room coffee maker spews out bitter mud. No issue is too frivolous right now—Castiel welcomes it. Anything to distract him from the unanswered questions left circling his mind like vultures. He flies through projects, sitting back at various moments, in awe of just how productive he can be when the rest of his world is crumbling beneath him. It's bitter sweet, just like the coffee.

     Deafening violins burst through his headphones. Castiel had to slip some sort of sound between his ears. Three hours into his work-order catch-up, and everything was starting to fatigue. His eyes grew heavy and his fingers ached with the continuous pounding of the keys. The more tired he became, the easier it was for Dean to sneak back into his thoughts. So he brought Bach into the ring, and Mozart, and Beethoven if things got really unbearable. Now, Cas let's his eardrums writhe on the sharp trills and thunderous booms of each piece—typing faster and faster, the only audible thought coming through being the concern that he might not be making any sense.

     Cas's head hums with new, hard cadence just as fingers slide across his shoulder and grip him tight, pulling him hard, making his office chair spin furiously round. Cas's eyes catch up with his body, brain still trailing slightly behind. When they finally come together, he is met by a looming-Dean, arms crossed, staring down at him.

     "Dean? What are you doing here?" Cas blurts, ripping the headphones from his ears and tossing them on his desk. "How did you get in my house? "

     Dean doesn't flinch, he only chucks the spare key Cas gave him years ago, into his lap; bending forward slightly at the waist, his green eyes full of fire.

     "What you did to Sammy tonight, Cas ... that was messed up!"

     Each accusing blink ignites Castiel. Dean's eyes leer at him as if he were the one skating on the lips of another. His nails dig tight into the arms of his chair, feeling as if he could rip them from their bolts.

     "What _I_ did?" Cas barks, leaping from his seat. "What do you mean, what _I_ did?"

     Dean leans forward into Cas's wrath, "You just walked on him, Cas! You're pissed at me, remember? Why did you feel you had to embarrass Sam in front of his girlfriend?" Dean unlocks his arms, throwing the right out to the side, gesturing at the fictitious Sam in the room. "This has nothing to do with him!"

     Cas nearly falls back at the words barreling out of the man's mouth, a little surprised that not a drop of alcohol was riding them. "You are correct, Dean, in that, I'm _angry_ with _you_! I feel badly for leaving Sam like that; but what did you honestly expect me to do?"

     Dean straightens a little, re-folding his tightened limbs, "I expected you to act like the mature, know-it-all, you always consider yourself to be and stick the fuck around!" he huffs, gruffly.

     "No, Dean. You expected me to not mention, nor care about what I saw when I walked into that place." Cas takes a large step into Dean's space, causing the defensive man to bend backwards a little. "You expected me to not notice how you had already forgotten everything that just happened between us. You really don't waste any time, do you? And you apparently don't really care how anyone might feel about it."

     "I didn't even know Sam invited you!" Dean sputters, his wide eyes, gawking at Cas's questions.

     Castiel's mouth gapes for a moment, unable to comprehend Dean's justifications.

     "Oh! Then by all means, Dean, sleep around. Become the town's drunken bachelor again—never resting until every available woman has been conquered!"

     Dean lets a snarled laugh burst from his lips, "Sleep around? One, I only kissed the chick and two—it's only considered sleeping around if you're in a relationship!"

     Cas turns his head away from Dean's gaze, feeling as if he'd been punched again. He corrects his neck, slowly, his voice erupting in vicious whispers, "So, was this all just an experiment to you then? Was I just your test subject; a hypothesis to see if all your long-term hatred of male intimacy was justified?" Castiel pushes further into the man, chests grazing each others, his chin at Dean's—sipping in the uneasy breaths slipping from the other's lips.

     Dean's mouth contorts on misshapen words, taking a few beats before any begin to tumble out, "What? No, of course not!"

     Cas feels the fury within him eclipse his fears of overstepping, "Oh, so you are the timeless cliché then!" Cas gives Dean a shove, knocking the man backwards, "You are the homophobic man who is only so hateful, in order to mask his own desire for the same sex? Only acknowledging his hunger behind closed doors? Did you expect me to stay behind closed doors Dean? Before I became too much of a hassle, that is?"

     Dean's face loosens, and a look of surprise and worry floods over his skin. "No, Cas, that's not—"

     "Am I being pitied then? Is that it, Dean? _Poor Castiel_! Am I that pathetic to you? So much so that you needed to throw me a literal- _bone_?"

     The throbbing veins return to Dean's brow, "You want to talk about pity? What was all that: _Dean, you're too fragile_ bullshit, huh?" Dean thrusts his neck back at Castiel, cutting off any advance that he may have had. " _You_ told me to stop, Cas! _You_ told me I couldn't handle this! You _told_ me to fucking stop!"

     With a cooling glare, Cas pulls away, until he can focus clearly on every clenched muscle in Dean's face. "You don't think you're fragile Dean? What did it take ... _one_ argument with me to send you tumbling back into your old ways? If Sam wasn't there, would you have been drunk too? One little argument, and that was all the reasoning you needed to dismiss the world, wasn't it?"

     Castiel begins taking slow, methodical steps towards his counterpart—never blinking, causing Dean to inch back with each advance. "What if I didn't stop you, Dean? What if I had let you continue trying to pleasure me? Would you have changed your mind in the morning? Kicked me out at sunrise, like all your other flings? Chalked it all up to one big mistake on top of your many? How would you have felt if you thought you had just messed up, yet again?"

     Dean stops his retreat, letting his voice drop low until it shakes Cas's knees "Are you really worried how _I_ would have felt if that happened? Or are you more worried about how _you_ would feel?" Dean hisses, making Cas flinch a little.

     "I was worried about _both_ , Dean! And why wouldn't I be? Do I always have to be the selfless?" Cas thunders, feeling his words vibrate the ground.

     "Do you really think that little of me, Cas? That I would just up and change my mind, overnight?" Dean spits back, hurt and alarm pooling in his narrowed eyes.

     "Isn't that what you did anyway? Isn't that what you always do? I have seen you with a hundred women, Dean, and none of them made a reappearance, save for Lisa—but one hardly excuses the pattern! Did you think I wouldn't be able to see the signs? I stayed the night, and come morning, you already have my replacement running through your mind."

     "Wow, your memory of this morning is really fucked up, Cas. Again, _you-_ stopped-me!"

     "So, then that's it? I say no and you move on? Life must be so much easier when you can forget people so quickly!"

     Dean opens his mouth but a cold silence chokes his words. Cas feels his rage accumulate on his tongue.

     "I have pulled you out of the pit more times than I can count, and this is what I get?" The blue in Cas's eyes grow arid and dark as he juts his face up to Dean's ozone, "I have been there for you, even when Sam couldn't handle your relentless neediness. I have literally let you _beat_ me if it would make you feel even _slightly_ better—I did all that for _you,_ Dean! And you just toss me aside?"

     "Cas ... I- I didn't toss you aside!" Dean stammers.

     Castiel's eyes cloud with white flashes; he feels his hands tangle into the fabric of Dean's shirt, as his knuckles dig into his ribs, lifting the taller man and propelling him backwards through the office door and against the wall of the hallway, rattling the frames with the impact. Dean coughs and sputters as he tries to collect the air that was just heaved from his lungs—his eyes wide, mouth gaping.

     "You don't have to sleep with me, Dean. You don't have to kiss me, I never asked you to do any of that; that was your damn choice! The very least I expected ..." Cas's voice dips, rumbling low, churning his own fiery stomach with the heavy base, "the _very_ least—was that you would respect me."

     "I—I do"

     Cas's eyes burn with anger and with the tears he had been willing himself not to create.

     "Don't you dare patronize me, Dean!" Cas bursts, releasing his grip from the man and hurtling himself round, facing the opposite wall. He growls deeply, wheezing around the boulders collecting in his throat, finally, pounding the sides of his fists against the plaster, as if he could beat all this from his world.

     "I think ... I think you should leave now." Cas roils, letting his forehead press against the wall between his fists.

     "Cas, c'mon ..." Dean offers softly. Castiel hears him move towards his back—the warmth of Dean's outstretched hand, hovering over his shoulder before dropping and gripping his shirt. The touch sends a shockwave through his joints. He whips back again, exploding his arms forward and pushing Dean away with all his strength.

     Dean coughs with the collision, "What the fuck, Cas?"

     "What? Are you angry now Dean? Are you going to hit me again?" Cas backs up and throws his hands into the air. "Go ahead! Go ahead, Dean! Please? Come on, throw another punch!"

     Dean unknits his brow,shaking his head, "Cas, I'm not going to—"

     "Please, Dean! Hit me! Do it! Do it, because I am telling you right now, that will feel so much better than this!" Cas demands; the truth of his own words nearly doubling him over. He turns again and staggers down the hall, determined not to let Dean see him break.

     "Castiel ..." Dean whimpers

     Cas moves to the mouth of the hallway and leans on the edge. "I'm resting in your teeth, Dean and you're choosing to bite down. I-I can't take it ..." Cas whispers through choked tears.

     "I—I don't know what you want me to say."

     The uncertainty in Dean's voice spurts out the last bit of venom from Cas's throat. "I don't want you to _say_ anything, Dean. I—want you to get the _hell_ out of my house."

 

 


	30. Wings

    "I'm sorry ... I _wish_ I knew what to say or, or what to do!" Dean sputters, moving closer to his pale, heaving friend. Cas leans into the angled, corner of the wall; his fists clenched, the whites of his knuckles attempting to burst through the skin. Dean feels his ribs ache in the spot where those knuckles had previously buried themselves.

    "I told you ... to _get out._ " Cas seethes, tensing his entire body until it looks like it could snap.

    The thorns sticking out of his friend causes Dean's skin to sting; every muscle and organ pulls at its casing, trying to rip free from the being that did this, that brought this sort of pain to someone. He never knew there could be this much anger in a man who is normally, such a soldier of patience; and Dean is the one who wrecked him.

    "Cas, please ... I—I don't like seeing you like this, man" Dean pleads. He wants Cas to turn around and see every fiber in his body and every hair on his head, hating the sight of his best friend looking so lost; lost to Dean and lost to himself. "I don't like knowing that I—"

    "That you, _what_? That you are the one who started all this, made this the way things are now?" Cas spits, tossing a sideways glance over his shoulder and back at Dean, letting his forearm jut from his side to motion at the air. "You don't like the guilt?"

    "I don't like seeing you lose faith in me!" Dean bursts, surprising himself by the answer; but somehow, his mouth knew the truth before his mind did. He watches as Castiel's head lifts a little, and the razor ridges beneath his shirt, dip down again, smoothing the cotton.

    Dean inches closer.

    "Cas, man. I know ... I know this started because of me. I know that we both would have been fine, well, _you_ would have been fine, if I never pushed you ..." Dean sucks in a shaky breath at the memory "— up against that wall, and if you never had to try and fix my mistakes ... but I did, and—"

    "You did." Cas interrupts, dryly.

    Dean feels his head fall with Cas's confirmation. He peers up again from under his brow, green eyes saturated with the hopes that all this might be fixable. He stares at his friend, whose ears are perked, waiting for Dean to speak again.

    "I can't go back and change it, Cas. I can't take away what I did or anything I did afterwards, I'm sorry."

    "Do you want to?" the words sneak from between Cas's lips, into the open air of the living room in front of him, taking too long to reverberate off the walls and back to Dean's ears, barely even audible.

    "Wh—what do you mean?" Dean stammers, not expecting the question.

    Castiel unseals his side from the plastered edge and turns slowly, the normally, sun-whites of his eyes are now a red, battleground of tears. His skin seems pale and waxy. Dean feels his stomach drop as he watches the gray rings seize, where brilliant, blue irises would normally dance. Cas slides close to Dean again, his face just under Dean's brow, peering up at him, expectantly. For a moment, Dean catches a breath of Cas's scent—the hints of earth and water; but even that seems far away somehow and Dean feels like he could break with the distance.

    "Do you wish you could take it all back; never have had any of it happen?" Cas leans into Dean, and the edge in his voice tempers. Dean tastes the warmth of Cas's breath as he hovers close to his lips. "Do you, Dean? Do you wish all of it would just, go away?"

    Dean searches Cas's cold, greying eyes, not sure of what they are intending. The heat of the man's body and how he is falling into him now, makes Dean want to wrap his arms around his friend and pull him close, like he did last night. The ache in the man's eyes, however, and the cool hesitation in his words, causes him to worry that he was about to get thrown into the wall again.

    "I—I, I don't—" Dean grapples at words, trying to find the right ones that will keep the dark haired man at ease.

    "You _don't_?" Castiel pulls away a little with his question, and the icy air filling the hallway swoops back to Dean's front, chilling him with stabbing pinches. "You don't ... _know_?" Cas leads, the bones of his shoulders arcing again, making him look hard and untouchable.

    "I ... just don't want it to be _this_ way." Dean staggers, pointing at the ground.

    "Did you think _I_ wanted this?" Cas spits, narrowing his eyes at the spot Dean is pointing to.

    "I went to that restaurant tonight, partly for Sam, but mostly for _you_. I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wanted to make sure that I didn't force your lips back to a bottle—little did I know, I forced them to another one of your vices!" Cas's voice is humming, his eyes continue to inspect the ground and Dean watches the waves and flicks of his friend's hair shake as he moves glances at each of his feet. The fierce man sucks in a large breath and drops, as if his knees finally gave out under the weight of everything he has been thinking. He rubs his hands across his face, leaving them there and talking in muffled tones beneath his fingers.

    "I never thought for one second, that this all was anything more than it was, Dean. I didn't allow myself, why would I?" Cas finally pulls his hands to the sides of his face and cups his ears; rocking on his heels, still squatting in front of him. "I just thought that we were going to try and figure all this out, _together_. I thought you wanted that."

    Dean looks down at his curling friend; taking a deep breath, knowing that nothing but honesty will do anymore, "I do, Cas."

    Cas shoots a glare back up at Dean and slowly pulls himself upright, his face, rising until he is level with Dean's eye-line once more.

    "You made what _you_ want, perfectly clear tonight, Dean." Cas growls. He watches as his friend turns his back on him and walks down the hall towards the living room—his pace, much brisker and more controlled than before. Dean begins to panic, a whole new breed than what he felt when he was in bed with Castiel. This panic electrifies his body and sends his mind screaming as if someone has just set it on fire. Castiel is literally _leaving him_ and by the tone in his voice and the deadness of his usually, brilliant eyes—Dean fears it will be for good. He stares down at the floor, glaring back and forth across the knots of the floorboards, searching for something to stop his only, real friend from walking away.

    "I didn't lie!" Dean bursts out, feeling his voice start to crack.

    Cas stops half way through the living room, not turning, just stoic against the silence.

    "I didn't lie about caring about this, Cas." Dean whirrs, voice slipping into a gentleness that had been lost from the room. He quickly closes the distance between him and his friend, reaching his hand up a little, wanting to touch the man's arm but stopping and dropping it again; knowing that he may not want the touch. "I care." he whispers once more, finally letting his head fall forward, until his brow is resting on the wings of Cas's shoulder blades.

    Dean can feel the man's heart beat hard through his body. He inhales him one more time, letting the scent file through him and stow itself away in his memory. He clings tightly to it, knowing it may need to last him. Cas's body shifts beneath his head. The fabric of his shirt slides against his skin and Dean looks up a little, to see Cas, turning around.

    Azure flecks return between the grey and shine against the light, beaming from the kitchen. The corners of Cas's mouth twitch, and he seems to shrink an inch as every muscle melts beneath his skin.

    "You didn't lie?" Cas asks, finally letting his forehead lean onto Dean's; the entire weight of his body, seeming to push into the touch.

    Dean smiles, and shakes his head slowly, shaking Cas's with it.

    "You want to try to understand this?" Cas whispers, closing his eyes as if in prayer.

    "Yeah, Cas." Dean confirms, closing his eyes too, letting Cas's smell and warmth wrap around him.

    "And ..." his friend's voice trails off for a moment, as if trying to find its way, "did you want to kiss that woman?" Cas probes, turning his head to the side a little, flinching before Dean can even answer.

    Dean hesitates, not sure if the truth will help or hurt, "I wanted to be wanted, Cas. I wanted that this morning. I guess I just ... I just thought that you—"

    Cas begins to laugh, small little, raspy chuckles that break Dean's thoughts, making him straighten his neck and open his eyes. Cas is still blinding himself to the world, smiling and shaking his head.

    "What?" Dean asks, feeling a little concerned about the grin now forming on his own face, unsure if there's reason yet to be smiling.

    Castiel breathes in deep, preparing to let Dean in on the joke.

    "I wanted the same, damn thing."

 


	31. Raging

     The rumble of his laughter fade as he stares back at Dean; but the loving cracks and carvings etched on his face over the length of their friendship, still remain-causing Dean to warm as he looks at each one. They hover there, smiling letting their hands graze together; the sensations making their bodies sway as eager feet beg them to move closer; but they are stagnant. Dean takes a lingering blink, needing just one moment to contemplate if he is seeing what is truly there or what he hopes to see—a happy Castiel, no longer wanting Dean gone and no longer holding deadened eyes to him. As the vivid green exposes itself once more to the air, it is welcomed by the sight of oceans and a waving smile, with tiny moons stitched just above it.

     He can't help himself, not that he wants to. His hands slide up to the base of Castiel's skull and pull him in. Cas's lips seem to pause as Dean encases his own onto them. The wait is infuriating and Dean brings down his right hand to the small of Cas's back, yanking their bodies as close together as his muscles would allow. Cas still holds onto himself, breathing in, a smirk breaking through, between each of Dean's attacks.

     "Damnit, Cas!" Dean chides, beaming at his friend, who is obviously loving the desperation in Dean's eyes.

     Dean pulls him in again, letting his tongue glide between the man's lips, in order to taste every, wet ridge. Cas's head tilts a little and suddenly, Dean's mouth is being filled by Cas's own eagerness. Their arms curl around each other, tightening as teeth and lips clash. Dean finds himself _needing_ the man's skin. He doesn't stop to question the thought, after everything he has put them through, he knows it's better now to just let himself go. Dean rips open Cas's shirt, letting the buttons fly and the loops fray. Cas releases his hold on Dean, as the cold air peaks his skin.

     "This was a good shirt, Dean!" he groans; but Dean only laughs in response, before letting his hands smooth over Castiel's firm sides.

     The loss of apparel is quickly forgotten, as he begins sucking and biting the straining tendons along the side of Dean's neck. Dean arches down and does the same to Cas's collar bone—licking the salt off every inch that meets his lips. Cas shudders and hums with the motions, and Dean feels the excitement rush down to his waist, making his jeans tighten. Cas moves his leg in between Dean's, somehow sensing Dean's hardened cock. Cas glides his thigh along the hiding, strained tip, making Dean gasp and wheeze away from the spot on Castiel's shoulder that he was currently teething.

     "Cas ..." Dean groans, hot breath collecting on his friend's chest, "I want to ..."

     Cas pulls away, and for a moment, Dean's stomach sinks, thinking that their day is about to repeat like a record skipping on the needle.

     "You sure?" Cas whirrs quickly.

     "Fuck yes." Dean shoots back, his eyes, singing around the green edges.

     Before he can blink, Dean's forearm is caught in a firm grip. He's quickly being hauled down the hall and into Cas's bedroom. The man pulls him inside, looking back only to give Dean a mischievous grin, that seems new and eager on his friend's face; new and unbelievably sexy. Dean's cock jolts again and he lets the pull go slack before rushing Cas into the mattress. They fall, colliding together, a hollow _thud_ of their chests, sounding out through the cool, night air. Dean straddles the dark haired man, uncurling from him for a moment only to rip off his own shirt. He smiles as Cas's eyes burn at the sight of him—the familiar blue, raging in the white. He feels his friend's hands glide up over the subtle, hard mounds on his stomach; a sensation that Dean was no stranger to, but this time—feeling almost as good as when Castiel finished him on the couch.

     Dean curves back down over the man, loving the power behind Cas's tongue as it enters his mouth. Dean lets his fingers trace the Cas's hard lines; wondering at how he's been neglecting the guy's body all these years. He wishes he could go back in time, just so he would have seven more to inspect every inch of skin until it was all committed to memory. Dean bites onto Cas's bottom lip, as his traveling fingers finally find their way down to the button, pressing firm to Cas's waist. The moment he touches it, he feels Cas's jean-cloaked cock writhe beneath his own. The feeling is so new but undeniably exhilarating. He unfastens the button, letting the exposed heat slide along his stomach.

     Dean pulls away an inch, eyes still closed, letting every other sense bathe in the moment, "Cas, will you help me do this?" he asks, finally, letting his eyes slit a little, only to see Cas's wide glare coming back at him. There was no concern this time, or pity- just the hunger that Dean felt he had waited his whole life to see.

     "Yes" Cas breathes before pulling Dean's lips back into his own.

 


	32. The Only Familiar Thing

    Dean hovers at the word. He had opened himself up to the possibility of Cas letting him in; but now that it has entered his ears, he isn't sure quite where to go. He feels his eyes turn from slits into craters, and the panic of _not-knowing_ starts to fill him once again. It's not a sensation he had ever wished to become accustomed to; but feeling it now, for the second time since this morning, there is a slight ease about it. Still, his heart attacks his ribcage and his breath explodes like lava from his throat. Dean lifts his quivering thigh and dismounts Castiel, never unlocking his eyes from his friend's. The sapphire orbs calm him a little—they are the only familiar thing out of all of this . . . Cas, looking at Dean like he matters.

    "It's okay, Dean." Castiel whispers, sliding his hand on top of the shaking fingers on his waistband. "Here ..." he gives Dean's hand a gentle push downward, and both soon disappear from sight beneath Cas's stark, white boxers.

    Dean's palm begins to sweat again as it slides along the already slippery, arrow of Cas's pelvis. Dean tosses tiny glances downward at his friend's wrist, as it maneuvers his own; each time, letting his eyes come back and calm themselves in the clear pools that are falling on him. He feels Cas lifting his hand and sliding it to the rigid shaft that's waiting for him. Once he fixes himself into the notch of Dean's thumb, Cas curls the nervous man's fingers tight around the base and pulls the shaky grip up and down, breathing heavier with each slide. Dean closes his eyes and lets the motions Cas is leading him in sink into the muscles of his hand. He grips tighter after a few minutes, this time, accelerating the speed of his strokes and pushing Cas's own hand up with his force. Cas takes the hint and slides his fingers away from Dean's, and back into the open air; letting the fair haired man take the reins. Dean moves up, twisting slightly at Cas's tip, feeling his friend swell a little with the pressure of his fist. He moves down again and wrestles the veins and thumps of blood rushing into the man's pulsing cock. Dean keeps his eyes shut, trying hard to concentrate, to do this right so Cas doesn't have to stop him again. So Castiel can finally feel some release after all the bullshit he put him through.

    A gentle touch to his cheek shocks Dean's eyes back open.

    "Look at me, Dean. I want you to look at me." Cas's voice is low and rasped, making the request sound more like a command; and Dean finds the force exhilarating.

    Dean nods— his eyes wide, as he lets his weight fall onto the man beneath him.

    "Slide your thumb across the head." The words skid out of Castiel's mouth like a hiss.

    Dean complies without thought, letting his thumb graze the plump tip of Cas's cock. Dean feels his own body lift as Cas jumps. He watches as the man's dark, tousled head rolls back—his eyes shutting for what seems like the first time since they fell onto the bed.

    "Christ!" Cas growls and Dean can't help but smile as the word hangs in the air, deemed unfamiliar by Cas's voice.

    His friend's neck relaxes after a moment, and Dean is soon swimming once more in the thinning rims of blue around Castiel's blown pupils.

    The man's dark, stubbled throat starts to rumble, "Faster, Dean ... keep looking at me." and Dean's arm tightens as he puts more strength into his grip, pulling quicker, causing his friend to squirm and twist beneath him. Dean shifts his weight, attempting to hold the man down; but quickly finding that Cas's lean body keeps a lot of power. Dean grows more excited with the fight; tilting in closer, intensifying his gaze, wanting to show Cas that _he_ is the one who was going to wreck him. _He_ is the one who is going to make him feel what Dean felt the night before; Dean has him in his hands, and he is going to use Cas up with every ounce of strength within him—Dean is going to take him to the brink.

    The man's dried lips part and his jaw clenches, as another unblinking stare digs deep into him. Dean maintains his rhythm, sliding Cas between his fingers, no longer concerning himself with the foreign feeling; instead, just loving the power and the ease of bringing Castiel into jostling-fits with just a squeeze of his hand.

    Dean gives his grip a quick, hard twist, something new from the motion Cas had originally taught. Cas arches his spine off the bed and clasps his eyes shut, as if suddenly blinded by light.

    "Dean ..." Cas grunts between staggered breaths, eyes still closed and his neck cracking up and down with the strokes, "bite my neck, Dean."

    "Bite it?" Dean asks, slowing his strokes for a second, surprised by the request.

    Cas snaps his head back, eyes bursting wide, shooting out a manic fury, "Bite my neck, Dean!" he booms, and Dean feels his own cock throb at the sound. He plummets to the strained beams running beneath the thin skin below Castiel's jaw. Dean swipes one quick lick across the scratchy surface before sinking his teeth in. Cas groans and Dean picks up the pace with his hand, feeling Cas heave in his fist. Dean lets his jaw slack and then bites again, a little harder—slightly worried that he's getting too rough; but Cas moans louder. Dean feels Cas's shaft expand, pulling his fingertips from each other and making the strokes more challenging. Dean slides up once more; his thumb, collecting the little drops that pushed out of Cas's tip. The man's low groans vibrate Dean's lips and tickles his teeth. Dean climbs up Cas's chest a little further, and moves his head to the other side of his friend's neck, letting the growling moans and choking breaths fill his ear. Dean nibbles the new plain of skin, leaving indents and red marks up and down his throat. Castiel's hands slide to Dean's back; his fingertips, digging into his shoulder blades, pulling at his spine—any ridge that Cas could hold. Dean feels Cas's cock roll, persuading him to stroke faster still; his arm is aching with the effort. The man's neck stretches beneath his teeth and Dean pulls away, knowing that his friend is close. Dean finds himself wanting to see it—the moment Cas loses control of everything.

    "Dean!" Cas chokes out one last, thunderous word, his eyes exploding, his skin turning pale; just before spilling out over Dean's hand. The whites beneath his lids shake wildly and Dean finds himself, still sliding his thumb over Cas's soaked head, loving the way it makes the man jerk and twist.

    "... Dean!" Cas gulps his name, trying to catch his breath; but Dean gives his friend's withdrawing shaft one last pass before resolving, finally letting him rest.

    Dean looks over Castiel, his light skin looking flushed and beaten. His broad chest growing with racked breath. His mouth opens slightly with every exhale, and his racing heart rattles down his body and up to Dean's loosened hand. Cas blinks wildly, as if just waking up, not expecting the sight of Dean—one hand, propping up his freckled body, and the other, still hiding in the shadows of Cas's jeans.


	33. Ready

     Warmth collects around his muscles, his bones, sinking Castiel down; feeling as if the mattress beneath him is pulling him under—his weight ever increasing. Every remaining, involuntary jolt of his body makes it weaker. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, leaving Dean's blurry shape resting at the bottom of his vision. The heat rising from his lower half feels stronger now, or perhaps, he is only _just_ sensing its intensity. It burns his stomach and the warmth running from Dean's resting hand, is scalding his hip. Cas blinks, trying to let his mind come back together, but pieces still seem to be gone, pushed away with each one of Dean's magnificent strokes. Castiel feels lucky ...  luck encased in a thin layer of guilt, thinking maybe he could have had this sooner and everything would have been fine, if he had just let Dean continue the night before.

     "Cas ... you okay, man?" Dean whispers and Cas brings his focus back to him; watching as Dean leans there next to him, all his weight on his elbow, the curving lines of his shoulders sliding down to connect with the hills on his arms. The dim light from the hall is struggling hard to push around the man's broad chest. Cas tries to respond but his throat seems to have closed. The yelling from earlier and all the groaning now, not to mention the tightening bite marks on his neck—his voice has stepped out. Cas just nods instead.

     Dean gives a concerned smile, "Was—was that okay?" he asks softly, looking away a little, almost shy.

     Cas nods again, feeling the corners of his mouth curve, and a small chuckle dance up his reddened throat.

     "Thank god!" Dean huffs, letting his locked elbow break just before falling on the bed and rolling next to Cas; his hand finally slipping from Cas's boxers, leaving an icy void on his skin.

     Goosebumps race up Castiel's body, shivering him- his spine becoming a raging, fault line. Dean notices the movement and looks at the wrecked man out of the corner of his eye, laughing a little. Cas sneaks a look back, thinking that nothing has ever quite touched him more than Dean's smile in this moment, after what had just taken place. If the world suddenly imploded, Cas would hold on to _this_ and be content. Dean lets that smile grow while turning his head and staring at the air. They lay in silence; their lines spanning the length of each other; skin, outstretched in the darkness, letting it dance on their stomachs.

     "I can't believe that just happened." Dean mumbles.

     Cas maintains his view, not sure if he wants to see the expression on Dean's face, knowing that a change of heart could always be close. He stays silent instead, feeling the air thicken.

     Dean sharply inhales after a few more seconds, as if he forgot how to breath, "Fuck, I never thought I would ... ya know." giving a laugh to hug his words.

     "Me either" Cas chokes out, the attempts, ripping his tender throat. Dean offers another soft chuckle, and then quiet takes over again.

     The stillness of the bed seems impossible but the presence next to him is overpowering. Cas wants desperately to speak but he has more than a sore esophagus to blame for his silence, the entirety of the English language seems to have escaped his mind.

     "I should probably wash my hands." Dean says finally; startling Cas a little, making him wonder if he was really that lost in thought or if he could actually be falling asleep.

     "Yeah." Castiel coughs, "go ahead."

     Dean lets out a laugh, "Dude, you sound like you swallowed acid."

     "My throat—" Cas croaks, "it feels like I did."

     Dean props himself up again, all his weight on his elbow, causing the bed to sink a little, dipping Cas down and making his head spin.

     "How about I get you some water too?" Dean asks softly, and Cas finally turns his head to fully look at the man beside him. Even in the dark, the pale green of his eyes is vivid.

     Cas nods once more, letting another smile curve his cheeks.

     The bed bounces and shakes as Dean scoots his heavy body off of it. The moment his feet touch the floor, he disappears from the room, and Cas returns his gaze to the smooth, white ceiling—a miniscule part of him wondering if Dean will actually return. He hears the echoing sound of water on metal, and then the squeak and clank of various cupboards being opened and shut. Finally, the sound of more water rushes through the house—then fades, before quiet footsteps pound ever closer; until Dean is standing in the door frame. Castiel peeks at him, water in hand, jeans sagging on his hips, the dark red waistband of his briefs, peeking over the top. He strains his neck to further take in the sight. It's an exciting image, as well as soothing. He isn't quite sure if he'll ever see it again, not in this context—but he would sell his soul to ensure it.

     After a moment, Cas's eyes focus a little more against the light, only just noticing the rounded peak to the right of the man's zipper. Now he feels what Dean must have been feeling before; a guilt bubbles through him and he wonders if he'll even have the strength to reciprocate. He knows he could manage with that sort of pent up pressure, but he isn't sure if Dean can do the same. Castiel certainly doesn't want Dean to have to ask for it, or to feel the need to _take care_ of it himself. He knew what had just occurred stemmed a little from Dean feeling like he owed him, but Cas doesn't want to enable that point of view.

     Dean walks to the edge of the bed, stopping just at Cas's feet, stretching out his arm to hand him the glass of water. Cas lifts himself up, embarrassed by the struggle in doing so. Finally erect, he takes the large cup from Dean's grasp and quickly gulps it down—wishing there was some way to suspend the cool water. Dean smiles down at him, and Cas returns the look, lips still to the glass, causing it to dribble a little from the corners of his mouth.

     "Oh, easy tiger!" Dean laughs.

     Cas finishes off the last sip and Dean takes the glass, quickly placing it on the nightstand and returning to his post in front of Castiel, as if waiting for a queue. Cas just stares up at the man, who looks adorable in his anxiety. Dean's eyes dance back and forth between his own and he knows that Dean is eager, but Cas isn't quite sure why; finding the new upright position rather mentally disassembling. His gaze then falls again to the large bulge, now sitting in front of his face, just an arm's reach away. Before he can think, Cas's fingers stretch out, curling into Dean's waistband—pulling the man close. Dean's eyes widen as he shuffles forward. The bulge grows and jumps as Cas undoes the button, sliding the zipper down slowly, watching every _click_ catch Dean's breath.

     The hard wood floors seem to yank the pants down from the man's hips, and they accumulate in a rumpled pile around Dean's ankles. The man quickly dances the rest of the way out of denim, finally kicking them to the side and out of the way. Cas's hands hover in the air and he begins to feel a little uneasy about what he is doing- not that he is exactly sure. The memories run through his head, of past dalliances. One woman sat in front of him, much like he is doing now with Dean, and proceeded to take him into her mouth as far as she could go. He found the sensation immensely pleasing. It is one he is sure Dean has experienced many more times than he, but each time was probably just as enjoyable. Castiel would like to be able to give Dean that feeling, anything really, to make his friend feel at ease-happy. The thought of a satisfied grin on Dean's face made Cas's softened bulge throb a little again- surprising him that anything could awaken his lower body so soon after Dean's attention. Yes, making Dean feel that way is the most arousing thing Cas can think of to do. The thought of being so close to something so fragile on Dean's body isn't bad either- there's a trust needed for that. If Dean will let him, Castiel wants to- if he can.

     He knows the motions—that one woman had been quite enjoyable to observe; but to actually perform the act himself? The thought is rather unnerving. What about his gag reflex? What if he accidentally scrapes Dean with his teeth? That is a very sensitive area on a man's body and he knows that if used indelicately, it can lead to days of discomfort. Cas resolves to finally move his hands, knowing that Dean won't appreciate the wait, and analyzing the situation certainly won't make things any easier. Cas just needs to try.

     The ridges of Dean's stomach tightly pull at his navel and Cas figures he can work his way down from this point—something for him to enjoy, to ease him into the process. He glides his fingers over the bumps on Dean's abdomen; stopping every now and then to give a particular freckle a tongue-filled kiss— only if it looks exceptionally needy that is, and many do. Dean doesn't seem to mind Cas's hesitation. The man rolls back his head and heaves heavy breathes that gust from his throat with each gliding touch of Castiel's tongue. Cas's lips finally brush against the gathered band of Dean's boxers. He looks up at Dean, blue eyes straining, as he bites the fabric with his teeth, pulling it down, getting a little help from his fingers. He pulls it lower and lower until the length of Dean springs out, grazing the side of Cas's scruffy cheek.

     Dean's face seems to freeze, his mouth open and motionless for a moment, before his jaw bounces on wavering words, "Cas, this is, umm ... you don't have to do _this_ , man." but the eagerness Cas reads in Dean's eyes says differently.

     He knows he could stop, use his hands like he had before, like he showed Dean how to do; although, he was just as unsure of what he was doing then. Both circumstances, however, did turn out quite well for being so un-researched. Perhaps, _this_ will be the same; perhaps he has a knack with pleasing Dean. He certainly hopes he does, because his lips seem to have already committed—placing one, soft kiss onto the freshly uncovered cock in front of him.

 

 


	34. Off His Edge

     This point of view was always Dean's favorite. Something about looking down at eyes looking up at him, as somebody eats him alive—it made his knees weak. The mix of vulnerability and strength, how he could so easily choke someone or be bitten to pieces; it was a tightrope walk and Dean, for once, wasn't afraid of the height. _This_ rope was different though. It wasn't rope at all, it was fucking fishing line; invisible and with seemingly no end in sight. A clear string, strung across two blue oceans, a thousand miles high, with white clouds all around—nothing has ever been more terrifying, more exciting ... more desired in Dean's life.

     Cas starts with his hands—idyllic, precise strokes after that first little kiss on Dean's tip. He never breaks eye contact, only blinking every so often and each time, it is slow, calculated. The azure disappears and then inches back, rocking at the top of his sockets. Dean almost explodes right there—the look is enough. How the hell is _that_ enough? He tries to think about it, tries to decipher what it means that a few little tugs and two giant eyes from this man is plenty to make him want to topple over himself in vicious heaves. Dean tries to think, but then Cas's lips wrap around his tip, sucking just a little. Dean watches as Castiel's cheeks hollow around him. The soft, stick of his tongue swivels around the head of his cock, making Dean the first one to look away in this overwhelming game of chicken. He can't help it, he has to jerk his head to the side because the pull from Cas's mouth intensifies- it makes him flinch and shake. After a few more brutal seconds, Cas releases, sliding off him with a _pop_. Dean looks at his friend again, watching him leave his lips parted, dragging hot breaths across his tender skin—just staring up at him. Dean throbs once more, loving the pressure of Cas's hand on the base of his shaft.

     "Is this okay, Dean?" Cas asks, his voice still wrecked and low, sliding a tight grip up Dean's length.

     "Jesus!" Dean blurts out, mid-nod, just before tossing his head back and giving a few amazed looks to the ceiling.

     He feels Castiel return him to his mouth, this time, sliding him deeper inside until Dean can feel the soft palate just beyond the ridges above his tongue. Dean's right knee gives and he jerks down a little, causing the tip of his cock to pull back and catch on Cas's teeth. The man pulls away instantly, a look of horror curving his giant, blue eyes.

     "I'm sorry! Did that hurt?" he chokes out.

     It did a little but Dean doesn't dare make the man feel bad, especially since he is currently doing what he's doing. Dean just shakes his head and smiles at Cas, loving how that is all it takes to bring his friend off his edge. Cas nods, giving another soft stroke with his hand before collecting Dean's throbbing bulge into his mouth once again. He moves slower but more continuously now. Up and down, letting his tongue slide from the base of Dean's shaft, all the way to his head; making Dean wobble in place; making him have to arch his back inward to shift his weight to steady himself. The motion pushes his cock deeper down Cas's throat and he hears the man gag a little. Now Dean is the one looking broken, as if he just cracked Castiel in two. He starts to pull back but Cas catches him, quickly at his hips, pulling Dean further in. The strength within the man's arms is still surprising; even though Dean has felt its force multiple times today. Cas gobbles him down, choking himself slightly but still under complete control of his tongue. Dean lets out a growling moan, knowing the shocked, gaping expression on his face is probably ridiculous; but each time Cas opens his eyes and looks back up at Dean, he seems to grow more furious by what he sees. Sucking faster, bobbing his head further, swallowing Dean more and more. Dean feels himself start to roll out—the muscles in his cock clenching and pulling from within, wanting so bad to release.

     "Cas!" Dean gasps, not knowing what else to say—he wants to warn him, he doesn't know if Cas had thought ahead to this point; he sure as hell didn't.

     Castiel closes his eyes one more time, slowly reopening to send a final, penetrating gaze up at Dean; a deep growl vibrates from his throat, all the way around Dean's tightened cock. Cas digs his fingers into Dean's hips, pulling the rest of the throbbing shaft in, as hard as he can manage. Dean slams into the back of the man's throat, feeling the smooth, wet give on his head. He nearly falls over, letting his hands drop onto Castiel's shoulders, gripping them hard, wanting to shut his eyes and let the heat inside him pour out into Castiel's mouth; but he keeps his eyes open, needing to watch his friend suck him down.

     Cas matches his stare, pressing his tongue hard to the underside of Dean's shaft. Dean breaks- his shoulders jutting out, nails cutting into Cas's skin, feeling himself empty hot, wild streams against the curving pink inside the man's mouth. The focused blues still don't blink—they just grow wider, and his suction more intense as he tries to gain enough traction to swallow before Dean starts to spill out of the corners of his mouth. The extra pressure makes Dean wheeze, shaking his head hard from side to side, finally squinting his eyes closed. He feels Cas swallow the last of his load, and slowly inch back, until Dean's tip frees itself from the pull.

     Hard, raspy breathes fall from Castiel's mouth; his lips are bright pink, heavily contrasted by his dark, unshaven face. Dean is still curled over, shaking hands holding tightly to Cas's shoulders for support; before finally letting gravity win and falling to his knees. Dean sinks down, letting go of the superior perspective. His hands release from their holds and slide across the bare front of the man's body. Dean kneels there, heaving, muscles jolting, his hands resting atop his friend's thighs, feeling himself get heavier and heavier—until he finally drops his head to rest on Cas's knee.

 

 


	35. Niagara Falls

     Dean flutters his eyes awake, twisting them into thin lines as the high sun blasts through the windows; Castiel wasn't beside him. Dean knew that he wouldn't be, but he's hoped maybe, Cas would have changed his mind and called out of work. He tried to convince the guy to do it when the alarm went off a few hours earlier; but the groggy man with bags beneath his tired, blue eyes told him that one week off was already too much. Dedication like that is strange to Dean; but he understands that Cas lives by it, so he knew not to push him too hard. Dean pouted back beneath the sheets, falling back asleep before Cas could even tell him goodbye.

     Now, in the cool blue of Castiel's room, Dean feels small and lonely. He _should've_ pushed Cas more, screw understanding! Understanding doesn't make this bed feel any smaller. It certainly doesn't fill the void in Dean's arms. After their epic evening, both of them resolved to crawl straight into bed and pass out; brushing teeth and showers all fell to the wayside. They were beat and literally drained. Castiel _did_ have just enough energy, however, to lay his head on Dean's chest like he did the night before; hugging tightly to his side, arms knotting them together like there has never been any other way to sleep.

     Dean's arms ache for that closeness again; but the red numbers on the clock carelessly scream at the him to move. The thought of getting up seems too daunting; but his growling stomach finally convinces him after another fifteen minutes of denial. Dean pulls himself upright, shaking out his arms and stretching his toes, before sliding them onto the stark, hard wood floor. He shuffles around the bed to Castiel's bathroom, figuring a shower should come first. Eating, may very well put him to sleep again. He walks into the bathroom, wondering if he has ever been into the area of the house—not just this sink and toilet, but the dark oak inlays of Cas's bedroom as well. Dean looks behind him, back at the rumpled sheets and then around again to the mosaic tile and granite tops—it all seems so strange. The few times he has stopped by in the past has only been to pick Castiel up to go hang out with Sam; or to maybe watch the game since Cas has the biggest television of the three of them-a crime really, all the guy does is read.

     This area of the house though, it's all new, and part of Dean hopes that it will become familiar in time. Not only because the shower that's in front of him now is giant and modern, and has a foot-wide shower head that looks like it could rain Niagara Falls down on his head; but because the idea of waking up _with_ Castiel and making this shower and this room part of his normal routine is just too appealing to deny. Dean turns on the water and waits until the room is encased in thick fog. He finally climbs in; taking his time to adjust all the dials and settings- not sure how he has ever cleaned himself in any other way. How the hell can Cas be such a stick in the mud with a shower like this?

     He stays beneath the water for the better part of an hour, addicted to the amazing pressure and endless heat. How Cas ever gets the nerve to leave in the morning is a mystery to him; but the steam builds to nearly toxic levels, making Dean's lungs heavy. With a sigh, the weary man shuts off the water and climbs out, already missing the consuming warmth the second it's gone. Dean dries himself off with perhaps, the fluffiest towel he has ever touched, before wrapping it around himself and heading back to the bedroom. Curling steam is sprouts from his skin as he reaches down to collect his red boxers from the floor, noticing how dry and stiff they feel. After such an amazing shower, Dean just can't bring himself to put the dirty things back on. Cas certainly wouldn't mind if he borrowed a pair of _his_ boxers, would he? After last night, _that_ shouldn't be too much, would it? Dean looks over to the dark oak dresser in the corner, perfectly organized an neat. The uncertainty eats away at him; so much so that Dean wears the towel all the way through breakfast, having to re-fasten the ends several times through scrambling his eggs. After accidentally flashing the toaster for the fifth time, Dean finally concedes to borrowing a pair anyway; just long enough to wash and dry yesterday's clothes. Hopefully they will be done long before Cas is off of work.

     With a full stomach, and skin soft and clean, wearing nothing but one of Cas's numerous pairs of pristine white boxers, Dean settles himself onto the couch and turns on the television that overtakes the living room wall. The picture quality is enough to make him want to cry. No man should be without such a beautiful piece of machinery. If he could just have this and his baby, he would never want for any other gadget or gizmo the world could produce.

     He flips through the channel guide, wanting to find something mindless and relaxing-a game of some sort might wind him up too much; and a morning like this one can't be ruined with hyperactivity. Talk shows and melodramas flip by in blurs, never given a second thought. Dean starts to lose hope, when he comes across a channel dedicated to nothing but cheesy, 1970's horror flicks—the exact kind he and Sam would sneak down and watch after their parents went to sleep. Part of him wishes Sammy was here to watch it with him. Dean smiles before taking a look down at himself, nothing but Cas's boxers keeping him decent—maybe it's good Sammy isn't here.

     The poorly constructed werewolf costume and fake scenery start to blur with Dean's thoughts. What _does_ he look like now? He knows, literally how he looks, but what is he doing? He loves this, he can honestly say that—he loves everything about this moment and last night, it's not like he's regretting it; but what does it mean for the rest of his world? He can't just walk out of this house with Castiel and pretend that everything that happened inside disappears. He knows Cas would never go for that and Dean would feel like a major ass for even trying such a thing; but what then? Should he ... should he tell people? Does this mean he's gay now? What the fuck? _Is he_? He doesn't _feel_ gay, not that he knows if there's a gay-feeling to feel. Should that matter anyway? He really likes Cas, more than he thinks he should, considering this all just started two days ago. Although, when Dean really thinks about it—he started caring for the guy the moment he met him. Maybe not in _this_ way, but Castiel was different than any other person he knew, or came to know over the last seven years. Since that first moment he overheard that monster of a man, screaming at Castiel over a spilled beer, Dean felt the need to protect him. Does that mean he has felt something deeper since the very first day? He isn't sure and all the confusion is starting to hurt his still fatigued brain. He wants to say he can just play it by ear, but he knows it will never be that easy.

     A knock at the door startles Dean out of his whirlwind of questions. He panics for moment, thinking that he should hide from the visitor, especially since he's only in some underwear and the rest of his clothes are currently submerged in suds. Dean slides up and off the couch, doing dodgy little swerves and turns, trying to see who's outside. The panic quickly fades with the faint but familiar outline of a delivery truck shines through the living room curtains. The need for formality and clothing disappears from Dean's mind as he bustles over to the front door. He swings it wide— with a smile on his face to match, hand reaching out for whatever package the person is dropping off for Castiel.

     "Dean? What the hell, man?"

     Dean tilts his head back, eclipsed by the tall shadow being cast over him by his gigantic little brother, looming on the porch.

 

 


	36. P.O.W.

     Dead snails could move faster than this work day. Castiel wants to scream at every new article that pops into his inbox. Each one somehow slows time instead of passing it. He isn't even sure if the work he is submitting is up to the usually high standard he's set for himself. His mind is elsewhere—far away in the previous night, tightly wound in another's warmth. It lingers in the early, morning mist, with a half conscious-Dean, pulling at his arm, trying to keep him beneath the sheets. His mind is gone and Castiel doesn't have the heart to rip it away from such happy little moments. The poor, bedraggled thing deserves them; a solid respite from the lonely, dark, stale thoughts it normally deals with.

     He dismisses the endless assignments, as the meandering hands of his clock finally decide to grace the top of its face. Cas wanders over to the lunch room, hoping some idle conversation will pass a few minutes without his agonizing attention. The plain space is empty—only a few motivational posters and a sexual harassment handbook to keep him company. The frozen dinner he brought for his lunch seems to take hours to cook. The cool sun doesn't move outside the window. _Everything_ is frozen and Castiel feels that his red hot desperation to leave should have been enough to melt it all into puddles by now.

     He eats, and he works; and wanders about the building, only giving the occasional nod or necessary information to accompany a memo for his coworkers. By the time four-thirty actually comes around, Castiel feels like he has been awake for days. He is a P.O.W in his own office and they have performed the most excellent of tortures. The run to his car has never been more desperate or more flailing—onlookers probably thinking he is being chased by hellhounds.

     Every crippling red light appears after a mocking yellow slows him down. Even the radio statics in and out, blurring Cas's mind into a rapidity of frustration and eagerness. His nerves are shot by the time he reaches the entrance to his neighborhood; a gnawing suspicion, still saying that Dean may be gone when he pulls up. Another right turn and a gradual left are the only obstacles keeping him from knowing if he can stay happy.

     The roof of his house appears at the corner, then his mailbox—then the familiar shape of Sam's charger, sitting in the driveway, and then Dean's shiny, black Impala appears, unmoved from this morning. Pure elation and intense fear clash together like warring armies in Cas's mind. Nothing could be more fulfilling than knowing that Dean hasn't run away from this ... whatever _this_ is; but then again, Casitel knows that Sam being in his house can't be boding well for Dean. Unless, unless Dean called Sam over; he nearly laughs at the thought. Cas has known Dean way too long, there is no way that a man who doesn't like to share details about his breakfast, would divulge information about last night's romp to his younger brother. No, Sam being at his home is probably a very, very unfortunate occurrence; Castiel only hopes that they are not currently duking it out in his living room.

     As he pulls into his garage, there are no sounds of unrestrained screams meeting Cas's ears. Even after the soft grind of the metal corrugated door finishes echoing off the concrete, nothing but eerie silence remains in the room. Castiel inches inside, shutting the interior door softly behind him, avoiding every squeaky floor board in the hall, hugging his body tightly to the molding leading towards the living room. When the space finally comes into view, a very serious-looking Sam, and a petrified Dean are all Castiel can see.

     With his hands balled together in fists resting between his knees, Sam stares at Dean—leaning forward, like he is waiting for an answer to a question that Cas didn't get to hear. Dean sits across from his brother, in the middle of the couch—wearing nothing but a pair of white boxers ... boxers that Cas is starting to think, belong to him.

     "Hi, Cas." Sam says, never look away from Dean.

     "Sam ..." Cas responds, slowly sliding into the room, as if approaching a wild animal.

     "Perhaps _you_ want to tell me what is going on here, because Dean seems to have lost all use of his vocal cords." Sam spits out the words, finally shooting one quick, judgmental glance up at Castiel.

     Cas slips around the side of the couch, finally getting a full view of Dean's face; his green eyes are glued to a bare spot on the coffee table, as if that is the only area in reality that's currently making sense to him. His full lips are slightly parted, a white mess of cracks and flakes covering their dry surfaces. Dean's hands are neatly folded on his lap, covering the button on the white boxers—his spine, flat and rigid against the couch. Castiel begins having flashbacks to Catholic school, and ruler-happy nuns who had nothing better to do than offer lashings for bad posture.

     "Is everything alright here, Sam?" Castiel asks finally, stopping a foot away from the armchair that tall Winchester is crushing.

     "Oh, _it's_ fine. I'm _fine_ , Cas. Just fine. I actually came over here to see if _you_ were okay—thinking maybe you didn't go to work today because you seemed pretty upset last night. I was worried you know, even though you were the one being a dick and splitting on me and my friends."

     Sam slowly turns his death rays on Castiel, locking them in, making him feel like he should join Dean on the dunce-couch, "I came here anyway, though, wanting to apologize for pushing you into coming to dinner, and making things even more awkward with Dean. But, who do I find instead of _you_ , just inside your door?" Sam pulls his lanky body from the chair and throws a long limb in the direction of the couch. "I find that _same_ , asshole-brother who tried to break your jaw! In _your_ boxers, no less! Now what the _fuck_ is going on around here?"

     Sam launches his head from one uneasy man to the other, and Cas begins shifting his weight between his feet, really hoping that Dean will take on his usual role and come to the rescue. Dean remains motionless in his spot, and Cas thinks there may be an imprint of the freckly-man on his cushion forever.

     " _Well_?" Sam hisses again, pressing his hands into his hips and falling forward, directly into Cas's dipping eye line.

     Cas bobs his jaw, trying to untangle some words from the chaotic frenzy in his brain, "Well, umm, Sam ... Dean and ... Dean and I—"

     Cas's words are cut off by the furious twisting of Dean's neck—now shooting a different set of lasers at his head. The violent motion catches Sam's attention as well. The giant slowly straightens himself, drawing his arms up and looping them together across his chest.

     "You and Dean ... _what_?" Sam leads; focusing all his energy into Cas's quivering sockets.

     Dean's eyes seem to be screaming and Cas wants nothing more than to just disappear. Snap into nothingness, leaving his car keys, suspended in the air where his hand once was, only falling in the next second onto the vacant floor beneath. Castiel closes his eyes, but when he opens them, he is still in the living room, being visually penetrated from every angle.

     "I am not leaving until I actually get an answer from one of you!" Sam snorts, firming his stance.

     Cas looks again at Dean, hoping he can have some sort of telepathic conversation with the man, to ask just what should be said to diffuse this moose-shaped bomb; but Dean's legs bounce nervously against the cushion, causing the white cotton of his boxers to flutter. Castiel's brain goes into hyper drive, wondering just how long the two men have been sitting here, and just why Dean is wearing _his_ boxers, anyway? On top of that, how did Sam _know_ they were his boxers and not Dean's?

     "How _did_ you know, Sam?" Cas asks suddenly—unaware he was _that_ curious; curious enough to ask such a trivial question, now of all times.

     "What? Know what?" Sam hisses; his stature shrinking a little with the randomness of the request.

     "How did you know those were _my_ undergarments?" Cas asks again; just glad to be committing to some form of words.

     Dean's jaw drops as his grassy eyes, brown in the wake of Cas's inquiry.

     "I—I" The tall man begins to shift all his weight to his heels, as if he could rock back and avoid the swing of Cas's concern, "I just have noticed that is all you wear, is all." he finally spits out, his ears pulling back on the defense.

     "It is; but Dean could have similar pairs. Are you _that_ observant of your brother's choice of briefs as well?" Cas offers haughtily.

     Dean shakes his head, mouth still gaping—screaming a slew of silent expletives at Castiel judging by the look of rage in his eyes.

     "Whatever, man!" Sam growls, throwing his hands in the air, "Look, it doesn't matter! All I know is: those are your underwear, and _they_ are on _Dean_! I also know that _he_ didn't go home last night, because I went over there after he left to check on him." Sam regains his stoic posture.

     Cas sinks a little with the new information. The likelihood of him or Dean being able to explain this away with anything but the truth is growing slimmer by the second.

     "So, that leads me to believe that Dean came over here last night—my guess, to bitch you out for leaving; but somewhere between then and now, he became practically naked, lounging comfortably in _your_ house . . . in _your_ underwear!" Sam's face starts to redden as he looks at Castiel, and Castiel feels his own face burn with a new, cherry hue.

     Sam shakes his head a little, the angry clouds in his eyes, seeming to clear "Is—is this ..." he chokes out, lifting his hand from the crook of his arm and pushing it out in front of himself, "A-are you two ..."

     His index finger juts forward and dances between the two, cowering men, while his large body fall backwards slightly with his growing realization, "Are you two, _together_?"

 


	37. Driver's Seat

     Glinting prisms shatter across the room; the sun has drooped low enough that the clear, crystal spheres adorning the mantle can reach out and catch its rays. The colors dance about the space, as if to highlight the absolute stillness of the three men. A stream of red catches Sam's cheek, licking his skin with fire. Dean watches as Castiel backs away from Sam's persecution; feeling guilty that he is frozen here instead of confronting his own brother about this; but what the fuck is _he_ going to say? The thought of speaking to something he barely understands is making his insides crawl in circles. There is no way he could tell Sam about the last couple of days- and if Castiel confirms his brother's suspicions, Dean may just break something. He wants to be anywhere else, anywhere but dealing with this—with Sam. He starts to wonder, if he moves fast enough, maybe he can rush past both of them and out the door. He can go sit in his baby—baby always makes everything right.

     "Jesus, fucking Christ! You two _are_ , aren't you?" Sam says to the attentive silence. Dean loses his lungs as he watches Sam; turning in place, pressing shaking fingers to his head, playing with his hairline. He looks at the mantle, pieces of white sun burning his profile, before turning round again to scan the rest of the room. Never really focusing on anything in particular

     The tall man slowly draws his gaze back to Castiel. "... Seriously?"

     Dean's eyes snap again to his dark-haired friend, who is currently inspecting his own shoes, chin dug tightly into his chest.

     "I, I am not sure what to say, Sam. This is all very awkward for me." Cas mumbles to the floor; the whites of the his eyes growing and shrinking as he shifts them from side to side.

     "Awkward for _you_?" Sam grunts, turning back to face Castiel, his words trailing with a spurt of manic laughter. "How the hell do you think _I_ feel about all this, Cas? Last time I saw Dean, he was leading an expedition up Lexi's skirt! Now, you're saying ... you and him ... are ..."

     His brother grows silent, for the first time since Castiel arrived, and Dean wonders if he has ever seen the words shocked from Sam's mouth before—it's kind of nice, really. He should have hooked up with a man forever ago if _this_ was the effect.

     "Sam, we were just as surprised as you are," Cas sighs, nodding back at Dean "and Dean reacted very similarly last week, when this all began."

     Despite Cas's soothing tone, the final words sound like sirens blaring into the room, bursting Dean's fragile ears; by the growing disgust on Sam's face—he knows his brother feels the same.

     " _Last week_?" Sam fumes, "What the hell? Just how long have you guys been ... been _pining_ for each other?"

     "We haven't been _pining_ , Sam. Things just _happened_." Cas whispers, his voice edging on snarky—and Dean wants so badly to just tell those desperate, blue eyes to stop trying to fix things.

     "Just happened?" Sam hisses, "Okay, explain to me how two perfectly, straight dudes just happen to end up, like _this_?' his boney finger stabs in each of their directions once more.

     Castiel cocks his head to the side, the way he always does when he's confused and feels the need to explain. Dean nearly swallows his tongue.

     "Well, if you really want me to dissect the details for you, Sam ... I suppose it truly started being a _mutual_ affair, the day before yesterday, when I kissed Dean at his home ..."

     Dean feels the muscles in his face slack; turning his head slowly, afraid to see the expression that would be wrecking Sammy's face. His brother is staring wide eyed at Castiel, head slowly hitching to the left, his jaw—just as lazy as Dean's.

     "At first Dean looked terrified and held back ... honestly, I was rather scared, myself; but the attraction between us proved undeniable." the scruffy man confirms, shrugging his shoulders, directing his looks to the vacant air between them, "So, he did eventually reciprocate. Then we moved to the couch and—"

     Sam's giant body bursts forward, snapping his mouth shut, the tendons in cheeks flaring. Dean watches as his brother takes rapid, cavernous steps towards Castiel; palms out, finally pressing his fingers into his friend's chest, as if to force the words back into Cas's lungs.

     "Stop!" Sam barks.

     Castiel leans back a little with Sam's impulse, killing the thoughts before he could even finish his sentence. Dean's eyes focus on the contact—Sam's large hands, pressing flat into Castiel's collar bone, not even hard enough to cause the pale, blue threads of Cas's shirt to shift; but Dean's eyes see claws, slashing and gutting the gentle man, shredding him to pieces. Cas rocks back slightly on his heels; but Dean sees the oceans in the man's eyes, crash against the wall with gale force. Nothing that Castiel said, deserved Sam rushing him like this. _Nothing_.

     Dean launches from his well-worn cushion, reaching his brother with just one, massive leap—his hands grasping onto Sam's before they even have a chance to fall from Castiel's chest.

     "Hey, hey, hey!" Dean snarls, no longer feeling fear paralyzing his bones; shoving his brother's arms away as if they were toxic, "Back off, Sam!"

     Sam's shocked face is palpable and Dean drinks in the contrast from the bitchy expression his brother has been sporting for the last two hours. Dean pushes himself between Sam and his friend, feeling as if he were unable to be anywhere else but here, guarding Castiel.

     "If you want to push someone around, Sammy, then here I am! Have at it!" Dean growls; tensing every, naked muscle; feeling taller than the moose for the first time in years.

     Sam backs away slowly; hands still up, looking pitiful and guarded.

     "Jesus! Okay ... sorry man." Sam huffs, shrinking a little—his face softening as a forgotten intimidation crawls back into his eyes. Dean almost feels like his old self; not the tough guy of recent years, but like the big brother he has always been.

     "I didn't mean to—sorry, Cas" Sam offers meagerly; peering over Dean's shoulder at the hiding, blue eyes.

     "It's quite alright, Sam." Cas murmurs, before leaning into Dean's back, placing an unstable touch on his side, "he barely pushed me, Dean."

     Dean feels the hot breath from Castiel's words lick his shoulder blades, and for a moment, he relaxes—wanting to throw Sam out of the house, and get back to his perfect day. Dean would too, but, he knows Sam would never let that slide, not even if _he is_ currently on the defensive.

     Dean looks back over his shoulder, only able to see the blurry hues of the man's face behind him, "It doesn't matter, Cas—he can't do that" he offers gently, not sure if he is comforting Castiel about Sam, or about himself. Dean turns frontwards again and eyeballs his baby brother, giving him his best disapproving glare.

     "I said I was sorry, Dean!" Sam whines, obviously not liking the sudden change in dynamic.

     Dean shakes his head, hoping Sam is feeling as guilty as he should be, "Yeah, yeah." he spits, nodding his head up, straining to look down on the giant, "Sit down! If you wanna talk, we'll talk. You and me!" Dean grunts, pointing at the arm chair behind the moose.

     Sam sits down; his brows, knitting concerned little lines that cover his face; puppy-dog eyes, peering up at Dean, desperate for approval. Dean smirks to himself. It feels good to be back in the driver's seat of the family. Satisfied with Sam, he finally turns to look on Castiel. His friend appears just as pathetic as the tall, shamefaced man in the chair—more so, since his eyes seem to have grown three times the size of any normal human being's. Dean can't help but smile a little, and Cas smiles back—a tiny thing that barely twitches on his lips; but it makes Dean feel like he may get a second chance at his perfect morning.

     "You sit down too, Cas." Dean whispers and Cas nods sheepishly, before walking over and sitting on the dented cushion that Dean left him.

     "Okay then ... " Dean claps his hands together, turning to look at his audience, wondering what the hell he is going to say next. Is he really going to put this _all_ on the table? He apparently, doesn't have much of a choice now. Dean doesn't know what there is to even say, though; he hasn't really had the chance to talk about it with Cas—what does _he_ think about everything? Dean looks over to the dark, messy headed man, hoping for some insight, only to be distracted by Castiel's wandering gaze. Dean follows his friend's eyes, down the length of his own torso, stopping at the glaring white boxers covering his waist. Dean feels the crimson bite of embarrassment rush over him. He starts to lower his hands, feeling only more awkward at trying to cover himself this late in the game; he concedes to folding his arms across his bare chest, sensing for the first time just how exposed he is.

     "Well, first, I am going to put some clothes on," Dean snorts desperately; tilting his head back in his best attempt to seem cool and in control "and then we are going to talk about this. We are going to talk the _hell_ outta this!"

 

 


	38. Monsters

_Uncomfortable_ doesn't even begin to summarize how he feels right now. The chair he's in seems too small, the room seems too small—the air is being sucked out, making the view of Castiel, hunched over across from him that much clearer. Why the hell is he here? Why did he have to come to check on the guy; the guy who is apparently _banging_ his brother? Sam never really cared who people thought were attractive, or who anyone went home with; it certainly wasn't _his_ business. Just because he didn't want some dude hitting on him, didn't mean that person wasn't allowed those thoughts and couldn't think them about other people. This isn't just a random guy though, this is Dean; his big brother—who is probably the reason Sam is as paranoid about male attention as he is. For as long as he can remember, Dean would be chasing something in a skirt and pummeling guys who looked at him wrong. That _was_ Dean, or how Sam knew him to be, nothing else. Sam can't imagine it differently, even though it's being played out right in front of him- he can't see it. It isn't even necessarily about whom Dean is chasing or who he hates now or doesn't; it's more that Dean is going back on a lifetime of claims and opinions. It's like he suddenly peeling off a mask, revealing a completely different man with completely different blood. It just isn't who he knows.

Sam sees his brother appear at the end of the hallway, wearing the same clothes he had on the night before at dinner; they look like they've been washed, judging by how damp they seemed—leading Sam's mind to _why_ they needed to be washed. He shared a room with Dean for most of his life; the guy didn't care about re-wearing dirty jeans and wrinkly, stained shirts. Why does he care now? A shudder runs down Sam's spine; his mind, shaking violently to loosen the compiling reasons for _cleanliness_.

"Are you alright, Sam?" Cas asks, breaking the silence for the first time since Dean left the room.

Sam shifts uncomfortably in his shrinking chair, feeling like it may just crumble beneath his weight, "Yeah." Sam finally grunts. He really hates how intuitive Castiel can be sometimes. There is no hiding from those humungous eyeballs.

Cas nods softly, and returns his gaze to his own clasped hands; not yet noticing Dean coming back into the room. Dean moves to the side of the couch, causing Cas to jump a little, then instantly relax when he sees who it is. Castiel seems to light up—every worried muscle lowers, he sits straighter. His eyes smile. Sam is surprised by the change in the timid, little man. He is more surprised that he finds the reaction, slightly endearing. Dean scoots past Cas, sitting just to the left of his friend on the couch; far enough away that their knees don't touch, but close enough that it's obvious he wants to be close to the guy.

"So, Sammy ..." Dean breaks in, while clearing his throat; eyes bouncing off every surface they find, before finally falling on Sam, "I am going to sound like a dick here, but do you think you can make yourself scarce for a bit? I think I need to talk to Cas about some things before I talk to you."

Sam stares at his brother. If he hadn't just experienced the few hours, this would seem normal. Him, Dean and Cas, all just sitting around, hanging out. If this were a day or two ago, Sam would have loved to hear Dean say he needed to talk to Castiel alone. That would mean Dean would be talking to _someone_ , making amends and fixing things; but the last twenty minutes _did_ happen. Even though Dean looks like himself, and sounds like himself, and is ordering Sam around like he always has, it feels foreign.

Sam doesn't reply for a moment, wondering if he wants to leave, to get out of this awkward stink; or if he wants to stay, stew in it, and discover what brought all of this about, "If I leave, you probably won't let me back in, will you? I know you, Dean. You will shut me out." he sighs, unable to kill his own curiosity.

"I won't let him do that, Sam." Castiel butts in before Dean can utter a word.

The look on Dean's face probably resembles the look on his own—Castiel sounds like a wife, calming her angry husband while disciplining their child. Both of the Winchester brothers feel it and Sam thinks it doesn't sit well with either of them. The uneasy look cloaking his brother, however, is a little comforting. At least Dean is still acting the same—for the most part.

His big brother clears his throat, nearly rolling his eyes in the process, "Uh, yeah ... I will keep you in the loop. I just need a little time."

Doubt burns Sam's insides, he can tell when his brother is lying, "Sorry, but I am not leaving this house. I have known you all my life, Dean and I don't think Cas here can sway you to go back on _that_ many of your personality traits. If you don't want to talk about something, you are a master at avoiding it. I can go into the kitchen if you guys want to talk- alone."

Dean glares at Sam, giving him the "I will kick your ass for this, later" look that the little, giant brother knows all too well. He's not used to it in _this_ context though; it usually came if he accidentally cock-blocked Dean with some chick at a bar, or ratted him out for something that Sam didn't know was a secret in the first place. But this look somehow comforted him too—another reminder that his big brother is still under the confusion, somewhere.

"Seriously, Sam?" Dean spits, but Cas cuts off the impending feud with an outstretched hand, hovering just above Dean's knee, looking for all the world like it wants to rest upon it.

"Dean, if he wants to stay, he can. This is all going to be said anyway . . . we may as well get it over with now." Cas notices Dean's eye roll this time around; he looks slightly offended but thankfully, does not acknowledge it. "Food and drinks are in the kitchen, Sam. Please, make yourself comfortable while Dean and I talk."

Sam scoffs- Castiel really does sound like a wife.

"Fine." Sam pushes himself out of the seat, feeling his hips scrape against the clenching arms. He huffs into the kitchen, not bothering to look at the two men along the way. Sam feels like he is being sent to his room without dessert—he hates that all he can do is stomp his feet and whine, it only makes everything worse. The cool granite counter top feels icy beneath his palms. Sam rests against the edge for a while, not sure how to busy himself while Dean and Castiel figure out whatever it is they need to settle.

"Why the hell did you say he could stay?"

Dean's low voice rushes along the hard wood, deep and fluid—soft but clear. Dean never was able to master the art of whispering.

"It wouldn't be fair to send him away, Dean."

Castiel's voice is shaky, but suffers from the same audible base that Dean's does.

"I don't even feel right seeing Sam within the same _year_ as last night, and now you want him in the same house while we discuss it?" Dean's voice carries out in a growl.

Sam shakes his head, not hazarding a guess at what happened the night before.

"It needs to be discussed and Sam is here, like it or not. This is not going to go away by avoiding it."

"Yeah, whatever. I'm so glad _I_ have a say in all this."

"Don't act like a child, Dean. Sam has a point; you push people away in these situations. He is your brother, and my friend, and he just found out something very—strange."

"Didn't we all? Why does he get all the concern when we're the ones still trying to process this crap?"

"We had a say in starting this _crap_ , Dean. Sam didn't."

"Why should he?"

Dean's voice spikes, and Sam straightens himself against the counter, feeling suddenly, very awkward for wanting to stay throughout this discussion; he only hopes that Dean and Cas remain unaware of the fact that he can hear them. If they knew, there is no way Dean would ever feel comfortable talking about anything; although, Sam really isn't sure if he wants to hear it anymore.

"Dean, he's your family and in many ways, I feel like he's mine as well. Whatever we are doing here, we need to include Sam in the details ... _some_ of the details, eventually."

A long pause fills the house and Sam quiets his breathing, which seems to be bursting out of his chest like a tornado through a motor home.

"What _are_ we doing here, Cas?"

The gentleness in Dean's voice nearly guts him, lurching him over and hitching his breath. He hasn't heard that tone from his brother, in years—not since he was little, terrified of the thing in their closet. Dean sat next to his frightened little brother, seeming at the time, like the biggest man alive. He put his arm around Sam's shoulders and told him soft stories of all the people in the world who beat their monsters. He told Sam that one day, all those monsters would be scared of him, because Sam would be bigger than them. Sam could take on anything that came his way with just a wink and a smile.

"I really don't know, Dean. I ... I am enjoying it, though."

Another perfect silence calms the air.

"Me too."

A devious lump crawls into Sam's throat. Guilt lays siege on his spine—his neck, making him break forward. Why the hell is he being such a dick? The fact is, the smile Dean had on his face when he opened the door earlier was the most genuine smile that Sam has seen his brother wear in years. Even with Lisa, there was a hesitation, like Dean was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not today though, no ... Dean looked truly happy. Perfectly content, and Sam is throwing a fit about it because, why? Because he isn't used to his brother being happy? That's so strange to him now that he would rather Dean be miserable so he doesn't have to cope with change? Who the fuck cares if Dean is happy with a man or a woman? And it's not just any man anyway, it's Castiel. Probably one of the kindest people he has ever had the privilege of knowing. If Dean is actually for once, _this_ perfectly content, Sam is sure as hell not going to ruin it for him.

The tall, heavy man pushes himself off the granite, letting the sharp edge cut into his palm with the force. Turning around, he thinks for a moment about what he is going to say when he goes back into the room. Should he even say anything? Words don't really seem to have a place here. Not anymore. He gusts through the kitchen, and out to the mouth, leading into the living room, hoping that the right thing will pop into his head on its own. The sight of Castiel, peering up from a lowered brow at his smiling older brother, floods his eyes.

"Are we going to see where this goes, Dean?"

Dean's scruffy chin drops to his chest, leaving his kind, green eyes to shut tight to the man in front of him; but his smile grows bigger as he playfully shakes his head. With a soft chuckle, Sam watches his brother peer back at their closest friend, barley slitting his vision, as if squinting at reality so he wouldn't take in all the good things at once; all the good in Castiel. As if he could draw it all out with just his gaze. A giant grin cuts into Cas's cheeks and Dean finally lets his eyes burst wide, almost involuntarily, like his body couldn't stand it anymore and needed to see everything. Sam watches as the blue eyed man reaches out his hand, laying it softly on top of Dean's, chasing each one of his brother's monsters away with only just a smile.

"I'm game if you are."


	39. Epilogue: His

     A high-pitched beep shocks the static, "Dean, your disgusting, fried, non-fish tubes are finished!" Cas calls out over the microwaves third and final song.

     Dean bustles into the kitchen, eyes rolling, doing his best impression of an annoyed-Sam. "These things aren't disgusting. They're deep-fried bars of golden-perfection, and they help me when I'm stressed out." Dean grumbles, pulling out the hot plate; poking each crusty fillet with his finger, "Don't diss the fish stick!"

     Cas widens his eyes, and nods in sarcastic agreement—knowing that there is no hope of ever getting this man to eat healthier ... ever. "I honestly have no idea why _you_ are stressed, Dean. Sam is the one giving the speech." he says after a moment, tired of the fish-talk.

     "He's my brother. If he chokes, I choke." Dean replies gruffly, moving to the fridge to retrieve the bottle of ketchup. In a moment, nearly a cup of red, sugar paste finds its way to his plate.

     Cas makes a notable look of revulsion-flaring his nostrils and showing his teeth; Dean responds by eating each piece of processed, blubber in bigger, more obnoxious bites. Cas shakes his head and returns to the coffee pot that he had been washing.

     "I appreciate your familial empathy Dean, but you have nothing to worry about with Sam. He is very good with his words and he will do fine, today."

     "I know he is good with words, but I wouldn't be stressing if he didn't tell me yesterday that _he_ was stressing. My little brother doesn't usually worry out about this stuff. He stresses over _me_ , but not school-crap."

     Cas looks back over his shoulder at the concerned, freckled man. He seems tired, and he should be. Dean tossed and turned all night, keeping Castiel up right along with him. Even Cas's attempts at relaxing Dean in his favorite ways were disregarded. Sam was too deeply imbedded in Dean's mind and Cas knows that little Sammy is about the only thing that can kill Dean's desire for intimacy. He wishes he could tell him—tell him the _real_ reason for Sam's nerves, but that humungous Winchester would have his head for spilling the secret.

     The glass coffee pot sings at the touch of the metal sink, vibrating its hum into the air long after Cas's fingers left it. Instead, moving them to Dean's shoulder—leaving a damp, darkened print along the curving cotton that's covering him up.

     Dean leans a little to put down his plate, and Castiel watches intently as the man shifts his head to look at what he's doing. The man's neck tightens, showing each muscle and highlighting his jaw. The stretch of his skin pulls the top of his shirt away, just enough to expose the center of his wide, freckled collar bone. Cas can't help but lick his lips at the sight. Every arch of the man in front of him is appealing; and if they had nowhere else to be this morning, Cas would spend each moment of orange sun running his fingers along the paths around Dean's body.

     The hand towel next to the sink is quickly collected; removing any grease and crumbs left on Dean's fingers. Castiel smiles, loving how Dean already knows his tendencies—that Cas wouldn't appreciate the residue of fake fish all over him. His smile grows wider at the realization that Dean is planning to touch him; even though Dean touches him often, it somehow stays new. It feels like a surprise Dean had thought out just for him. Grassy eyes wave, and shake as they lock themselves back onto the dark haired man. Strong hands slide along Cas's sides and finger tips wrap together at the base of his spine. Dean pulls him forward until their noses touch, and even though the smell of ketchup is still fresh on his thick lips, Castiel leans into their kiss. It is another gift he wasn't expecting this morning.

     "Sam will be just fine. _You_ will be just fine. This is a good day, Dean. We should all be really happy." Cas whispers over Dean's mouth; closing his eyes, letting the worked air flow between them.

     Even in his hazy darkness, he knows Dean must be smiling. Short bursting breaths lick the top of his nose and Cas feels Dean's body rise. The taller man's forehead tightens against Castiel's as they lean their weight into each other. It is an amazing feeling for his skin, to experience Dean's happiness all over it.

     "I know, Cas. I'm proud of him, too proud. It's almost annoying." Dean chuckles into the air.

     "I'm sure Sam would be very pleased that he can still annoy you in so many, new and interesting ways."

     Dean laughs louder, and Cas revisits the world as Dean pulls his head away, arching his neck back, giving a full showing of his perfectly straight, teeth.

     "Yeah, he would be happy about that, that bitch." Dean hisses happily.

…

     Dean loosens his tie to further expose the sheen of sweat glistening through his now, unbuttoned collar.

     "Dean, please, can you manage not to strip down in the middle of the ceremony?" Cas whines, but Dean just throws him an aggravated look; Cas returns it. "It really isn't that hot, I don't know what you're making such a fuss about."

     "It's like we're on the friggen sun! What the hell is taking them so long anyway?"

     "It's a graduation ceremony, Dean. They have many students to get through."

     Cas receives another frustrated glare, "I know that! I'm not an idiot; but don't they usually do the big speeches in the beginning?"

     He feels his shoulders soften as he looks at the nervous, sweaty man. There has really never been anything more worthy of Cas's adoration than Dean, dressed up in a very nice, very fitting suit, fidgeting like mad, in anticipation of Sam's valedictorian speech.

     "Sometimes, yes; however, I think when it comes to certain collegiate ceremonies, they want to save the best for last." Cas smiles, reaching up to gently squeeze Dean's shoulder, "and obviously, Sam is the very best."

     A light hearted smirk crawls across Dean's lips, as his beautiful, green eyes roll for the millionth time today. Castiel drops his hand and Dean takes a small step closer to him, locking their fingers together, holding their grip close to his side. For a moment, Castiel acts how he always has, falling against Dean's firm body, pushing his weight down into the hold. Only realizing a second later, that they're not in his home, or sitting on Dean's couch. They are not in the Impala, listening to the same, tired rock songs on the stereo—they were in the middle of a crowd; perhaps a thousand people or more, and Dean was _holding_ his hand. Cas looks down at their wrists, intertwined, like their bodies have become used to; Dean's thumb glides along the side of Cas's palm with soft, short strokes. He lifts his eyes to look at the person locked to him as he was staring at the stage, a small smile on his face and apparently careless about the possibility of being seen.

     "There he is!" Dean shouts, suddenly pulling his hand away to cup it around his mouth, "Woo! Go Sammy!"

     Castiel stares at Dean's fingers, sad that a moment he had been hoping for for quite some time is already over.

     "Ya see him? He's right there; he's about to cross the stage!" Dean spits out of the side of his mouth, not bothering to turn his head to confirm that Cas is watching, "He looks like a fucking gothic giraffe!" Dean busts out with a laugh, "Yeah, Sam!"

     The smile is contagious, even though Cas feels a little angry with Sam for stealing his moment, he finally turns his head to look at the stage. He wants to see what Dean sees. He wants to be just as proud as Dean is.

     The announcer takes a deep breath into the microphone, vibrating the air around the stadium, " _Samuel Winchester_ "

     Dean goes wild. Castiel has never seen the man so happy before. The people around them begin to turn and stare, making Cas chuckle a little. No one even noticed them holding hands—which is what Dean has always been worried about; but everyone is now staring intently at the loudest one here. Dean is completely careless that he is acting like an utter fool.

     Sam's face turns bright red when he finally locks eyes on his brother jumping up and down in the crowd. After a sheepish wave and a quickened pace, he was across the stage and walking down the steps until he was out of view. Once the shaggy head is gone, Dean finally calms himself, his chest still heaving from the excitement.

     Cas smiles at him, "Did you get that out of your system?"

     Dean shoots him a glare, "Back off, my brother is only graduating college once!"

     "Well, that might not be true, there are higher degrees he could strive for."

     "Oh, Jesus! Don't even say that! I can't handle this again!" Dean barks. His face turns serious, and he returns to pulling at his tie.

     With Sam's walk, finished, only the X, Y, and Z's remain as students go; which are few and far between. It only takes another five minutes before Sam is being called back onto stage to give his speech, the speech that has been wrecking Dean for the past two weeks.

     Dean is quiet this time around, clenching his fists together, bobbing up and down on his heels, eyes sealed to the podium as Sam centers himself, needing to bend down a little to reach the microphone.

     "Don't choke, don't choke, don't choke ..." Dean mutters to himself.

     "He'll be fine, Dean." Cas reassures, but Dean only shushes him as Sam inhales his first, audible breath.

     "Ladies, Gentlemen, fellow graduates: today, we stand here, in a sea of emotions. As family members and friends, I'm sure you are all very proud—perhaps, even nervous about this chapter of your loved one's life, coming to a close. I know that it is bitter sweet for me, I loved it here. As students, I am sure some of us may be relieved that the essays and the hours and hours of studying are finally finished; some may feel sad to say goodbye to this place that has become a second home to us; some may be only seeing this as a stepping stone to their next journey—all I know is, I find solace in that we are seeing these things together. We have all become brothers and sisters while here. I know many of you; I have worked with, and played with, and sometimes, even shed tears with many of you; and those of you whom I do not know, I feel like I do because we have shared this time in some way ..."

     The proud voice booms across the grass, over chairs and into their ears. Castiel can't help but peek at Dean with every other word. Little lines of water slide across his lids, as he stands, unmoving against the image of his accomplished, little brother.

     "We have so many to thank for pushing us to this point, and so many to apologize to, for dealing with our insanity at times. You all may have had friends and parents, or extended family or sisters that guided you along the way. For me, I always had my brother. There is absolutely not one single person I can depend on more in this world, than him. Let us take a moment now to thank those who have guided us down our paths, we literally owe you everything."

     The crowd erupts, cheers and cries from all corners deafen the air; but the people blur. All Cas sees is the vivid eye line of Sam and Dean, nodding towards one another. Cas watches Sam as he mouths the words "Thank you." in Dean's direction. Dean smiles and shakes his head, looking down for a moment; straining to keep away the tears.

…

     Jessica throws an amazing party, even by Cas's standards, and he, frankly, is not a party-person; but the sweet girl, even took him into account. She invited many of Sam's professors, giving Castiel more intelligent conversation than he could ever hope for—better still, with individuals that were just as awkward as he. The only complaint that he heard from anyone's lips, was that the party was a dry-affair. Jessica had obviously been informed of Dean's issues with alcohol. Thankfully, Dean didn't seem to notice. Now that the speech was done with and the ceremony was over, all he could do was gloat about Sam to others; and embarrass the giant when he was around. Between rants over Falkner and philosophical debates on Plato's teachings, Castiel would find himself doing nothing but staring at his joyful counterpart. Dean would stare back, giving him a wink or an unrestrained smile; and for the first time in the year that they have been seeing each other, Cas truly thought of Dean as _his_.

     Sam interrupts, jolting everyone's conversation and laughter; causing Castiel spit out a sigh of relief—in a moment, he could finally let go of the information that Sam had made him keep. The several weeks caused him to be even more blundering than usual. Dean had to know something was going on; every time he brought up Sam, Cas would choke on air.

     "Hey, hey! Can you guys listen for a second? I know we are all having a good time because my beautiful, inspired, amazing girlfriend, Jessica certainly knows how to throw one hell of a party! Am I right?" Sam yells, and cheers follow his words.

     Jessica is turning an adorable shade of red as she hides in the corner, beaming at her tall love who can't help but beam back.

     "I want to thank you all for being here and celebrating with me. I love and appreciate all the support I have received from you guys." Sam's voice deepens to match the sincerity in his eyes, "It really means the world to me and I wouldn't have made it here without you."

     "You already gave a speech today, now you're just showing off!" Dean heckles from the back of the room. Castiel leers at him and Dean's laughing eyes turn to confusion when he notices— eventually mouthing "What?" under his breath.

     "Thank you, Dean. You have been the most helpful of all!" Sam barks back sarcastically. "But in all seriousness, I am _not_ here to recite another speech—not to you all at least. I have one particular person that I want to talk to."

     With that, Sam turns again towards Jess, reaching out to pull her into the center of the room. The shock on her face reddens it even more, and within a second, everyone in the room knows what is coming next. Cas looks again to Dean, trying to decipher what he makes of what is about to happen. Dean looks just as surprised as the thin beauty enraptured by his brother.

     "Jessica, you have stuck by my side through every test and study session, through every troubling time and hard night, and you have lifted me higher than I had ever thought I could go. I want to do the same for you, no matter the cost, even if it kills me, I want to help you get everything you have ever wanted; but I can only do that if you promise ..." Sam voice tapers as he pulls a ring from the breast pocket of his shirt, " if you promise to be my wife."

     Jess puts her shaking fingers to her lips, and tears collect in the creases of her eyes. She nods furiously, before grabbing the ring from Sam's hands and flinging her arms around his neck. In a moment, she is lifted from the ground, being spun around by the ecstatic man she had just promised her life to. The two remain in their own world, unaware of the cheers and the congratulations being thrown at them from every direction. Oblivious, until Dean is suddenly at their side, embracing them both the best he can; looking happier than the two of them, combined.

…

     "Can you believe that freaking moose didn't tell me? Me! He kept a proposal from his own big brother! If I wasn't so happy for him, I'd punch him in the nose." Dean laughs.

     He's been talking non-stop since they left Sam and Jess's. Cas lets him go, enjoying each trilling sound that wisps from Dean's lips.

     "Seriously, though! I really can't believe he managed to keep a secret!" the man pauses, smiling at the road ahead, "Did you have any idea?" Dean finally asks; and Cas feels his heart quicken. He truly hopes that he won't be upset that he too, kept the secret for so long.

     "Well ..." is all he can spit out before Dean's mouth begins to gape.

     "You too? Come on! Really, man? No one tells me anything!" he hisses, smacking his hand on the steering wheel and staring back out the windshield.

     "I'm sorry, Dean. Sam asked me to help him choose a ring, and he made me promise I wouldn't tell you. I suppose he thought it would be a nice surprise for you as well."

     Dean stays silent; looking at the yellow lines that pass, clenching his jaw.

     "Are you angry with me, Dean?" Cas asks, hoping he didn't make a mistake in conspiring with Sam. Even though it was for a good cause, he had reservations since the beginning, and felt like he was being deceitful.

     Dean cracks, giving him a long, sideways look before letting a soft smile curl over his mouth, "Not mad, just impressed." he chuckles gently.

     The rest of the drive home is filled with more of Dean's chatter: about Sam, about the speech, the proposal—about how happy he was that Cas was there for all of it. By the time they get out of the car, Castiel is in a state of eternal blush, not quite sure what has gotten into this man next to him, but he is enjoying it immensely. Dean moves ahead of him on the way to the door, and Cas watches how he walks, a little bow-legged, but confident. His spine is straight and his neck is aligned, no longer twisting his head from side to side, to make sure the neighbors aren't watching them walk in together. Dean is _his_ , and he is Dean's, and it seems that the green eyed man is finally alright with that. As they push inside his front door, Cas only waits long enough for the latch to click before thrusting Dean up against the wall, furiously kissing his neck.

     "Jesus!" Dean yelps; a hint of giddiness rattling his throat, "What are you doing?"

     "What I've wanted to do the entire day." Cas growls between nips.

     "Oh." is all Dean can muster before grabbing onto the man's tie and pulling him flush against his chest.

     Cas rips Dean's hand away, pinning it to the wall, matching the other wrist in short order. Dean's eyes pop as he stares deeply into Castiel's face, as if trying to see through his skin. Cas's nerves burn, every hair on his body rises, letting chills run through them like wind through grass. Dean looks almost frightened as Castiel presses further into his waist, tightening his hold on his suspended arms.

     "What the hell has gotten into you?" Dean breathes, in an airless chuckle.

     " _You_." Cas grunts, laying a few more bites to his throat, not bothering to look up at the man, "Or you will be soon." He feels Dean's cock jump at his words.

     Knowing that this frustrating, sculpted, goofy, loyal and loving man is _his_ nearly drives him mad. His mind has lost all control over the rest of him, only his aching fingers and throbbing bulge have a say anymore; holding Dean down and making him do his bidding is all he can think about. After that very first day on Dean's couch, Cas let the fair-haired man take the lead, unless he asked Cas to help. He knew that that was the only way for Dean to transition into all this without much recoil. Today changed everything though. Today showed him that Dean was completely invested; he wasn't walking away. All the trepidation that Castiel had for pushing too hard dissipated into the muggy air, accumulating between their bodies. He wants to feel Dean in every way imaginable; and he has no qualms about fulfilling that desire.

     "Do you mean ... ?" Dean mutters, his face still looking panicked.

     "Yes," Cas groans, "I want this." finally releasing his grip from the man's wrists, sliding his hands down to unfasten and pull away Dean's belt, "Get in the bedroom!"

     His green eyes jump with the command, and his jaw clenches with anticipation. Dean is enjoying this—and Castiel is enjoying having control. Dean inches along the wall, never taking his eyes off of his partner; finally freeing himself from the weight being put on him. Dean backs away, walking blindly in short awkward steps down the hall, feeling behind him for the door to Cas's room. Cas follows, feeling his body hunch forward; he quickens his pace to rush the man, making Dean nearly trip over his own, eager feet.

     He tumbles inside the door, stopping just short of the bed, waiting at attention for Castiel's next directive.

     "Take off _everything_ ..." Cas hisses, still holding his unwavering glare on Dean.

     Dean complies, slipping out of his shoes and socks; shimmying his pants down before sliding his shirt over his head. A dark, crumpled pile of clothing is soon resting between them on the floor, still warm from Dean's heat. Castiel looks down on it, feeling the corners of his mouth turn as he sees Dean's boxers still residing on his hips.

     " _Everything_ , Dean!" he barks and the tented button bobs a little at Dean's waist.

     The boxers are soon, stripped away by thick, shaking fingers. Castiel takes in the sight, long and lean—angled and hard. His man was bare in front of him, and looks good enough to eat; and he has every intention of tasting him. Cas begins to work at his own clothing, loosening his tie and slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Dean watches, careless that he is so exposed. Castiel feels his own cock grow at the ease of it all. He drops his eye line down as he pulls off his tie and constricting top, Dean's tip is already purpling as it bounces with his quickened pulse. Cas licks his lips, wanting to feel the man expand against his teeth. He kicks off his shoes, but stops there, leaving his bottom half fully clothed—thinking that commanding Dean to undress him later sounds too appealing to deny himself; and Dean's perfect cock has been ignored for far too long.

     He moves closer, finding the man's tightened chest, soft against his fingers; it's still, holding in its breath, waiting for permission to release.

     "Get on the bed." Cas commands and Dean backs up, sitting down slowly on the edge of the mattress, keeping a close eye on his blue-eyed general.

     Cas pushes between Dean's knees, letting the buckle of his belt stop just below his freckled chin. Dean tilts his head back, straining to view the length of Castiel's body.

     Cas towers over him, loving the anticipation he could create with only simple stillness, "Undress me."

     Dean nods as his hands slide up the firm thighs, meeting in the middle to unbuckle his belt. Cas closes his eyes, concentrating on every tug and pull Dean gives. He feels the man's wet breath on his naval, and he bulges more, aching to feel Dean's lip touch his skin. In a moment, his pants are undone and dropping off his bones; another pull at his briefs quickly reveal his strained tip and pulsating shaft. Cas flutters his eyes down and then blacks out the world again, waiting for Dean's powerful hand to wrap around him, waiting to feel his lips kiss his thigh, waiting for whatever new gift this man is planning before he takes back the reigns.

     The pressure of a moist, soft tongue hits the head of his cock and Cas can't help but shoot his eyes open and peer below; in just enough time to watch himself disappear into Dean's mouth. He has only seen the image once before, Dean's last attempt was so awkward that neither of them really found any enjoyment in it. The man would later apologize and offer to try again, but Cas refused him—he hated making Dean feel insecure more than anything. That was nearly six months ago though, and Dean has received many visits from Castiel, sucking him empty in the time since. Perhaps he was being studious during those nights, trying to master the technique. Dean pulls Cas in with nothing but the force of his throat, and the erect man nearly falls over.

     The light, intentional scrapes of Dean's teeth along his bursting veins, makes his skin shock and mount in waves. Castiel braces his hand on Dean's shoulder, not sure if he can keep standing—not if the man continues to go at him so furiously. As if in melded minds, Dean releases, grabbing Cas's hand and yanking him onto the mattress. Cas quickly arranges himself, not waiting for direction—only wanting to continue _this_ since Dean is so willing to give it. He nestles himself between pillows and sheets, watching as Dean turns and crawls up his legs, heavy hands pulling him down with their weight on the bed. His almond eyes glow a little in the dim light and once again, Castiel drags his tongue across his own, dry, cracked lips, eagerly awaiting his man's touch. The sight of every detailed edge and bone dizzies his mind.

     Dean bends at the neck, sliding his tongue up Cas's shaft before popping his tip back into his mouth. Cas pinches his eyes and clenches his jaw; the feeling burns his stomach and electrifies his nerves. He grips at the sheets and yanks them into his palms, as if trying to gain traction—control of something, since all other ability is lost. Dean sucks him in faster; keeping a perfect rhythm that makes Castiel's neck stretch and pull at its skin. Dean rises up again, hollowing his cheeks, pulling all the air he can into his lungs, while letting his tongue stamp, angrily onto Cas's purpled head.

     "Fuck!" Cas spits out; he hears Dean chuckle around him. He ignores it, not able to think of any one thing for too long.

Cas feels the mattress shift as Dean moves, adjusting his body; sliding his hands up so he could bend his arms and rest on his elbows. With his hands free and Cas still in his mouth, he slips his fingers beneath his the prone man's back, palms up—gliding them down to the firm curves of Cas's ass. Cas stares wide at the ceiling. _This is new_. Dean grips his cheeks hard, spreading them a little and the sensation makes Castiel arc, pushing harder into the back of the man's throat. Dean gags a little; but before he can apologize, Cas feels Dean's fingers glide deeper into the crease—making his opening ache for something it has never even known before. A light panic seeps into his skin; he knows he said he wanted this—and _he does_ , but neither of them has really attempted it before, not even the steps leading up to it. They have barely even talked about it; and other than the videos Castiel had studied in recent months, he isn't sure if either of them really has a clue of how to approach this part of each other.

     Dean's index finger finds the gathered rim of his hole, pressing lightly on it, letting each cell within Castiel know he was just outside of him—waiting to come in. Dean sucks harder, faster, letting his saliva drip from the sides of his mouth and pool at the base of Cas's shaft, cooling his fiery skin. Cas feels himself throb; the familiar white flashes of exhilaration, start to cloud his already blurred vision. Dean responds, locking his jaw and moving his neck with more force—peering up at the man he is consuming. Cas feels his glare and it breaks him, his mind shuts down and nothing but muscle and bone remain.

     Another light push of Dean's finger is all it seems to take. Cas rolls out, and Dean drinks him in—never breaking measure, gliding his lips through each pump; gulping Cas down. Castiel thrashes against the sheets, creaking the springs in the mattress. It's too much, he can't see, and the silent air erupts into deafening rings. He feels himself empty, but his body still lurches, trying to get out every last drop, as Dean sucks harder, attempting the same.

     With one last pass, Dean pulls away his tongue and Castiel feels a slight calm; his muscles finally conceding that he is, in fact, dry. Dean slows his movements, pulling up a little, and lessening the pressure of his lips. Cas begins to see shapes again, the beveled curve of the ceiling, the nipple-tip of the light fixture. The air quiets. The heavy, rattled breaths of the man below him become audible. He feels his cock finally meet the light of the room as Dean slides his mouth off with a pop. Cas tries to lift his neck to look down but his muscles are asleep; his body is being pulled to the center of the earth and he really doesn't have a say in stopping it.

     "Was that okay?" Dean finally grunts, sounding happy, like he already knows the answer; and by how Cas must look right now, melted into the pillow top, he should know the answer.

     Cas manages a nod, feeling exhausted immediately after the movement.

     "I am going to ... uh, rinse my mouth really quick." Dean breaks in again and Castiel feels a chuckle rise from his lips.

     "Did it taste that bad?" he croaks out, his voice, deep and snarled—like it usually is after Dean wrecks him in some way.

     "No." Dean laughs softly, "it's just sticky."

     Dean pushes off the bed as Castiel's choked laughter shakes it. The man disappears into the bathroom, and soon, rushing water and gargling noises fill the quiet. Cas starts to feel his mind awaken again, the temporary slumber coming to an end. His body is still beaten though, he could go to sleep right now, but after what Dean had just done for him, he can't imagine not reciprocating in some way. His directions from earlier, rush back into his mind. He told the man that he wanted to feel him in _every way_. He wasn't expecting this, however, and with all the blood back in his brain, he is now capable of analyzing all the probable outcomes if they tried to go forward. He isn't even sure if Dean really wants to go that far. Maybe he would prefer that Cas drink him down just like he did. Would Dean actually feel alright with something so different than anything they have done in the past year? He _did_ let his fingers explore new territory just moments ago—that must be saying something, right? A finger is not the same as complete penetration though; neither of them is used to that.

     Castiel feels, suddenly, very silly. _They_ might not be used to that with each other but he knows, Dean especially, is very accustomed to that position with women. Castiel had never explored the depths of a woman's curving back side but he recalls many drunken stories on Dean's behalf. Maybe, maybe this would be the most familiar thing they could do. Perhaps, Dean has been waiting for this for some time. An excitement rushes over the relaxed man, giving new life to his exhausted bones. He hears the water shut off and Dean emerges into the light. Cas sits up, pulling his heavy body to the back of the bed.

     "Come here." Cas instructs, staring intently at Dean's softened cock, seeing the exact moment it realizes, the night isn't over.

     Dean bulges; his shaft thickening and pulling itself up and away from his body. The man inches forward and waits at the side of the mattress, hoping for more direction.

     "Kneel on the bed." Cas growls. Dean once again, complies without question.

     With him kneeling, Cas twists himself around, pulling himself up to kneel along with him, facing him and letting his hands slide up and trace the seams of Dean's body. Dean's breath tremors out his mouth, directing Cas's attention to his lips. Those lips have been neglected all night—that would never do. A hungry kiss falls on them; tongues collide, as Dean wraps his arms around Castiel's tired body. Dean's rigid cock presses hard into his hip and Cas lets one hand fall down, gripping the shaft and giving it long, forceful strokes. Dean arches and breaks with each one, doing his best to concentrate on Castiel's mouth, but failing as the man pulls him in.

     "Do you want to try something new?" Cas mutters between staggered breaths and battles with the man's tongue.

     Dean stops, shifting away a little to look attentively into Cas's eyes. His lips twitch into a mischievous snarl.

     "That didn't sound like a command" Dean hisses, and Castiel feels his own, lifeless cock jerk again.

     "You are going to bend me over this bed, and you are going to push inside me. Do you understand?" Cas demands—his words, slow and intense.

     The grin crawling across Dean's face is only shadowed by the fire in his eyes.

     In a moment, Castiel is being pushed over onto all fours; while Dean positions himself behind him. His heart begins to quicken again, as he feels the man's body lean over his own, the heat from his raging cock, heavy on his thigh. Dean kisses and licks up and down the length of Cas's spine, letting his hands glide beneath him to softly massage the crouched man's cock. The sensation is amazing, but Cas isn't sure if he'll be able to release again; he hopes that Dean doesn't try to wait on his behalf. Part of him wishes he could see Dean's face; the student in him wants to know the details of everything, so he can perfect it later on—he knows he is supposed to be the one in charge right now, but what is he going to say next? Should he say anything? Or will Dean just take the lead? He feels suddenly, very overwhelmed at the big bite he just forced into his own mouth.

     His worry is flanked by Dean's heat abandoning his body; Cas looks back as the bed shifts and shakes as Dean dismounts from it. The bare, freckled man turns to the nightstand and opens the drawer, digging deep into the back eventually pulling out a small, clear tube with what looks to be baby oil inside.

     "What are you doing?" Cas finally asks, not knowing what Dean's plans are anymore, or how long he has been hiding things in his bedroom furniture.

     "Getting lube. You don't expect me to try to go at this dry, do you?" Dean laughs, crawling back to his spot behind Castiel.

     "Lube?" Cas wonders aloud; in his research, he must have overlooked that accessory.

     He paid far more attention to body positioning and facial expressions. How the person looked seemed more important than any implements or materials being used at the time. Did women use this stuff too? Their anatomy allowed for natural lubrication; at least that is how he remembered it being in his own experience. The other entrance to the body, however, he wasn't sure, he doesn't think so. Cas should have thought of this. He should have been thoroughly prepared before making this suggestion. Thank goodness Dean is an expert in this field; this could have been off to a very bad start already.

     Dean doesn't say anything else, he just goes to work—his hands move knowingly around his body. Cas closes his eyes. He wants to turn this into a didactic experience; but the shock of icy wetness dropping on the cleft of his back, disturbs that intention. Nerves again. Suddenly, he's unsure of anything he has ever watched, ever learned. What was this going to be like? He cares for Dean, and honestly thinks he would do anything for the man; but this feels a little self-sacrificial without any life or death situation hanging in the balance. Dean has done this before; he needs to keep that in mind. Dean wouldn't hurt anyone intentionally. The man would go out of his way to make sure he knew what he is doing before proceeding with anything—Cas knows this about him, he should take solace in that.

     Dean's finger slides the cold, lube down between Castiel's open flesh; finding the tightened hole and rubbing soft circles around it, easing the blue eyed man's body a little as the gel warms on his skin. Cas's elbows begin to quiver with his weight, making his whole body shake. He feels like he may collapse, but in a moment, Dean is gathering all the pillows on the bed, careful to avoid touching the fabric with his oiled-index. The pillows are soon pulled beneath Cas's stomach, creating a soft, bouncy shelf for him to rest his weight. Dean _is_ used to this—he does know what he's doing. The reassurance stops a few synapses from firing.

     "Lean onto that." Dean whispers, bending over the dark haired man once more to kiss his shoulder blade, "You okay?"

     "Yes ... I think so." Cas answers, immediately annoyed at his own honesty. He doesn't want to deter Dean from this, no matter his nerves.

     "This isn't my first rodeo, man. Well, with , uh . . . not a guy, that is. I know what I'm doing is what I mean." Dean soothes, dropping his chin onto the seam of Cas's back, letting his hand rub the length of his arm, "We can stop, though. If you don't—"

     "No!" Cas tenses again, "I trust you, Dean. I want this."

     He feels Dean smile against him, and he wishes he could see it. That smile calms him more than anything. Dean erects himself, dragging his fingers back down to the rear of Cas's body, letting them go back to dancing small circles near his entrance. With his free hand, he massages the small of Castiel's back, relaxing his hips, making him sink further into the pillows beneath him. It is nice, calm. His muscles ease for a moment with Dean's light touch.

     Pressure builds as Dean slides the very tip of his finger into Castiel. Cas tenses, and gnawing pain attacks his joints in unison, only to quickly dissipate into the stillness. He tries to relax again, hoping that what he felt wasn't obvious to the man behind him.

     "How ya doin' Cas?" Dean asks, holding his finger still; keeping his other hand moving in steady strokes on the man's spine.

     "I'm alright." Cas lies, terrified that this may be a miserable experience for him.

     The finger glides into him deeper, opening him up. The lube carries the weight, smoothly flowing Dean's skin along his own; and in a moment, Dean has lost both his knuckles inside him. Castiel exhales, the pain doesn't return as his body gets used to the piece of Dean that's invading him. They both are stoic for a beat, letting each other settle onto this new plateau. Dean pulls back a little, before pushing in once more and bending his finger slightly, catching the edge of something inside Castiel that causes his organs to shake. A delicious burn rises up his back; pushing his cock, hard against the sheets. He has no idea what that was; or he might, but he had no idea that it could feel _like that_. Dean twitches his finger again and Cas's entire body drops into the bed, no longer able to keep his muscles functioning.

     "That's new." Dean laughs, obviously aware that this is feeling good.

     A muffled, soft growl vibrates into the sheets around Cas's buried face.

     "Should I keep going?" Dean whispers.

     Cas manages to pull his head up, letting the fresh air sting his skin, "Yes! Dean. Don't stop."

     Dean twists his finger inside Castiel, making sure to touch that spot with each pass, the spot that causes his man to shiver and writhe on the bed—tense and relax, moan and hold his breath. Cas can feel Dean's excitement pulse on his leg. It feels large, too large. The nerves return a little, between touches; making Cas unsure of how all of Dean, can fit in him. Dean graces the magic area once more, and then gives his finger a slow pull, drawing it out of Castiel. This sensation isn't as pleasant, and his body grips onto the man's joints, holding him there. Dean resists and continues to move out; the stabbing ache returns. The pain drags on even after Dean is free; and Cas grits his teeth, trying not to breathe out the expletives that are forming on his tongue. He needs to ride through this. If he shows any remorse now, Dean will stop and who knows if and when they will try this again. He won't ruin this over a little, or even a lot of discomfort; Dean wants this—therefore, Cas wants it more.

     The click of the lube bottle startles him over the last few waves of pain. Perhaps making things slicker will be of benefit. More iced gel fall against the tender insides of his skin. Dean shuts the bottle, returning it to its place on the nightstand; and a moment later, Castiel feels the presence of two fingers, pressing against him, both vying for space inside his body.

     One slides in, easier than the last time but his bones still resist a little. The tip of Dean's second finger begins to pull and stretch his skin. The sting returns and Castiel breathes through it, concentrating on every part of himself that he knows is visible to the world—concealing the ache and stabs. Dean pushes further, and soon, both fingers are dancing along the magic spot inside him. The control he had over himself is lost again; the burning heat returns to his skin, making him hungry for everything carnal. Dean pulls his fingers back slightly, and then thrusts them once more—bouncing off the trigger that makes his man squirm; in and out another time, a little harder, a little faster. Soon, keeping a steady pace and Castiel is matching each motion with involuntary muscle spasms. He feels his cock throb and strain; between the blinding flashes of pleasure, he wonders what is left inside him to actually let out; but his body wants to try. The exhilaration mounts with each one of Dean's touches; he feels overwhelmed, and in need of more all at once.

     Dean seems to read his mind again, slowing slightly, before pulling his fingers free. There is no pain this time, just a subtle urge to reach behind him and pull Dean's hand back—wanting to make it continue its dance. The bottle is collected again, and Cas feels the heat from Dean's cock disappear as the man pulls himself away. A soft moan resonates behind him and he can only imagine Dean's expression as he massages the gel into the crease of his tip, eyeing the space he is going to fill—licking his lips, anticipation, eating away his senses.

     A steady hand returns to Castiel's hip as Dean centers himself. He feels the burning heat of Dean's cock inch closer. It rubs into him, pressing harder with the force of Dean's other hand behind it. Dean glides it up and down, across Cas's entrance, smearing the warmed lube, making him feel slightly unclean—and for once, not minding the feeling at all. Dean pushes against him again, this time, more broad and oddly, more pleasurable. His entrance parts and Dean slides in, spreading Cas wide with his girth. The pain and excitement clamor together with clicks and pops inside Cas's head, rattling down his spine and tumbling over his nerves. His brain can't comprehend anything anymore. Dean glides in further; the pain starts to win. The ache reappears, locking his joints and breaking them apart. He feels nauseous. He is stretching too far and he isn't sure if his skin can hold. He will tear in half. Another inch passes, slow and steady. Dean grasps Castiel's other hip, moving his friend's body back onto his shaft. Cas resists a little, not able to help what his mind tells his muscles to do.

     "Too fast?" Dean grunts, sounding like he is trying hard to muffle happy moans.

     Cas can't answer; he wants to, but he tenses around the man as his insides try to eject the large intruder.

     "It's almost all the way in, it will be better in a second, okay?" Dean hums, tracing his thumb along the curves of Castiel's body.

     He believes him, even though he physically can't comprehend anything to confirm that. His tendons scream, telling him to make this stop; but somewhere, deep inside, he knows that this is what he wants. He wonders when he became so masochistic, or when he started caring more for Dean's pleasure than his own pain. He nearly laughs to himself; he knows the answer— _always_.

     Dean gives the final thrust, hard and deliberate. Cas hears his teeth crack; wondering if he is going to pass out. The world darkens; his brain melds into the dizzying spin of the sheets—only to be stopped hard by the feel of his man, pulling him back together again. The hurt fades, the sting subsides; his body opens up as Dean rests himself blunt against the pleasure-wall inside Cas's body. Every twitch of the man's pulse-he can feel. Every fibrous strand of skin and heat is now mixing with his own, amazing and sweet. Dean pulls back a moment, and then in again, and Castiel feels it—the eruption of ease and contentment. The closeness and connection of him and Dean; it's so strong he could nearly cry and for once, the tears won't shame him.

     "Cas?" Dean's gentle tone warms him even more, "Cas, you alright?" He bends downs over Castiel's back, gliding his hand underneath his friend, across his chest, clasping just below his shoulder. Dean lets his head rest on the top of the man's spine and Cas feels him shudder as he tightens his arm around him.

     "I'm perfect, Dean." Cas finally says in a staggered whisper; feeling Dean's smile against his skin.

     "Me too. " Dean breathes back.

     Dean holds on for a while, and Castiel presses his body up, connecting every inch of skin he can with this man—this man he values more than anything. He could stay like this ... as long as Dean wanted to grip him tight, he would stay. Nothing hurts anymore, and Castiel doesn't think anything could hurt him, not anymore-not while they're together. Not with Dean showing him that he feels like he truly belongs here.

     A gentle kiss touches just below his neck; soft lips, lifting the skin beneath them. Dean raises himself back up, separating their bodies, letting the open air cool them down. With a slight pull of his hips, he motions half way out of Castiel; only to fall fluidly back in. His strokes quicken and his moans become audible. Cas strains to look back, trying to see the man's green eyes—he needs to see them. He catches a wavy glimpse, as his body rocks with Dean's thrusts. Their eyes meet and he sees Dean smile—only slightly with his lips, but his expression beams from the rest of his face. The man's happiness fills the room, elating Castiel and making each touch inside him more exciting. He slips into the moment, closing his eyes and falling back onto the Dean's shaft. Cas's cock grows harder, and he feels it leak a few drops of sticky warmth onto the sheets. He could release again, he didn't even know that was physically possible in this amount of time, but he could.

     Dean growls and moans; sounding almost like words, but nothing that Cas can understand. He moves quicker, in and out, digging his finger nails into the dark haired man's hips, letting the smack and suck of their skin, ring in their ears.

     "Fuck!" Dean barks, bouncing hard off Cas's back.

     Cas begins to blaze, muscles lurching and he feels it again, the familiar, painful joy of climax.

     "Dean, I'm close ... Dean!" he hisses into the skin of his own arm, biting down, trying not to yell.

     "Yeah." Dean mutters among other noises, and Cas deciphers the words as ones of solidarity.

     A few more thrusts and Dean stills himself; Cas feels the man widen within him. He pushes in further, hard, up against Castiel, sending notes of blinding pleasure up the man's spine. Castiel spills out, soft cum sliding up the skin of his stomach and soaking the mattress. He arches and bucks against Dean's weight, causing the freckled man to yelp—collapsing down onto Cas's back, wrapping his arms tight around him. Heat pulses through his insides, and Dean twitches with each pump. They convulse and rock together, breathing hard; wheezing into the air, sweat gathering in their creases. Castiel feels Dean lessen, no longer taking up so much room inside him. Dean tips his head, resting his brow onto his friend's shoulder before kissing the pale skin beneath. He lifts himself up and eases out; Cas winces a little, the shadow of the ache, rushing by him one last time. Dean falls to the side, barely missing the blow of the headboard on the way down. The bed bounces as his body comes to rest, soft laughter keeping it awake.

     Castiel mimics the act, turning his body and collapsing next to Dean on the bed, careless to the mess surrounding them. Dean scoots closer, linking their bodies together with his limbs. He nuzzles his head into Cas's hair and breathes in deeply. Cas smiles, knowing that this is something Dean often does, although he's never quite explained why. Smelling him, taking him in in this way, does something to his man. He wants to ask someday, but for now, he revels in the mystery. He is content in knowing that something as simple as his smell can bring Dean so much contentment. Cas pushes himself back, wanting to feel just as close as he felt moments ago. Dean tightens his grip, apparently wanting the same.

     "Cas?" Dean whispers, his breath tickling Castiel's ear.

     Cas hums in response, feeling the familiar pull of sleep on his bones.

     "I love you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: castiel-left-his-mark-on-me. Please take a look at my other works as well ... many more feels, hottness and angst!


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